


this is only the beginning

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or a collection of prompted tumblr drabbles for 2016, including but not limited to:<br/>the once and future nessie, interplanetary ziall, mermaid lirry, youareinlove.mp3 lilo, a Great Haroldini origin story, bungalow niam, footie gryles, vampire lourry, post-zayn ziall, and others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the once and future nessie

**Author's Note:**

> new year, new drabbles post. just needed to get these all in one place, eh?

Breslin would have thought with a title like _the once and future king_ , there’d be something rather regal about him. Perhaps a touch of destiny in the way he squares his shoulders, the prophecy evident in the set of his jaw. He’s waited a lifetime for him and he’ll spend a lifetime with him. They share a name and a fate. It has been written, and so it will be.

He expects more than what he gets, which is, a perfect view of the prince falling right off his horse.

Breslin rises from the patch of herbs he’d been picking through for ingredients. It could be the right time, the moment he’s waited for. He could have gone off to the castle at any moment, knocked on a door and sought an audience with the prince, and started their relationship there. But prophecies demand some level of mystery, and so Breslin had stood by to bide his time.

He watches the prince struggle to his feet, figuring if the gods have been so kind as to literally drop him in front of Breslin, it must be time.

“Are you all right, my lord?” Breslin asks.

Niall straightens – or His Highness, Breslin supposes, should be proper and all, but he feels as though he’s known Niall for a hundred years already, at least in some form. Niall’s hand rests gently on the hilt of his sword as he turns around. Then he topples back over again with a cry of pain.

Breslin crosses the distance between them quickly, easily, and finds Niall on the forest floor, dazed and wincing with pain.

His glassy eyes barely focus on Breslin’s as he asks, “Are you a knight?”

“No, my lord.”

He pats weakly at Breslin’s chest. “You’re built like one.”

“Yes, my lord,” Breslin agrees, his eyebrows furrowing with suspicion. 

He gently turns Niall’s head and finds what he expects. He pinches his fingers around a swatch of rough leather from his bag and gently pulls the witch’s needle from Niall’s neck. He stashes the needle in his bag for research.

Nasty green veins crawl out from the puncture, slowly branching towards Niall’s heart. They’ll grow and conquer before long. Breslin scoops Niall into his arms and whistles for Niall’s horse to trot after them.

He looks so young, cradled in Breslin’s arms, the weight of his future not yet resting heavily on his shoulders and darkening his eyes. Niall doesn’t look like a king, but he will become one by necessity. He will be benevolent and just, perhaps – hopefully – even wise enough to know he shouldn’t travel alone. Breslin is not the only keeper of Niall’s destiny.

The door to Breslin’s cottage bangs open with a little more violence than Breslin intended, but the veins stretch faster than Breslin expects. He lays Niall out on the pallet in the corner and swiftly gets to work.

He’s got just enough herbs to work out an antidote, a race against time. Niall should be screaming by now, as the green burns his throat, but he’s silent in the corner. He takes with determination – or stubbornness – clenched teeth. Breslin senses it’s not a matter of pride that keeps Niall silent, but whatever it is that is infused in royal blood that predisposes them to stalwartness in the face of danger.

He circles the rim of the cup to activate it as he approaches Niall, a spark or two flying over the edge. The antidote hisses. It’s ready.

Niall stiffens, what’s left of his strength lets him curl a hand around Breslin’s wrist where it hovers over his face. He croaks, “You’re a sorcerer.”

“Yes, I am,” Breslin says, and tips the potion into his mouth anyway. Neither of them can afford for prejudice or politics to stand in their way.

Niall coughs wildly as Breslin’s work takes effect, his eyes go wide and begin to water. Breslin reaches over for the pail he knows he’ll need, but Niall’s grip on his arm tightens.

“I need that, my lord.”

Niall only gasps in return and Breslin flicks his wrist to summon the pail instead, just in time to tip Niall onto his side as he empties the poison into the pail. Niall coughs and spits violently into the pail, wheezing all the way.

“Rinse,” Breslin says. Niall eyes the cup in his hand, still cautious after all that. “It’s water.”

Niall follows instructions slowly, his eyes starting to drift shut now that his blood pumps slower and the stress of the last twenty minutes has settled. Breslin somehow convinces him to rest a while, though they both know sleep is coming for Niall, whether he likes it or not.

Only once Niall closes his eyes does the weight of what they’ve been through settle hard and unforgiving on Breslin’s chest. The determination that Niall live had outweighed all else, but the fear washes over him in the wake of safety. He holds his chest and steadies his breath as well as he can, breathing and counting slowly, hoping he doesn’t have to reach for a potion.

He inspects on the witch’s needle to calm down, focusing on a task instead of living inside his own head. Fate is relentless, unstoppable, it will never stop to ensure Breslin or Niall is ready to face it head on. An attempted assassination and no trace of the culprit.His first duty is done, but it feels like they’re only on the precipice of what’s ahead of them.

Niall is so young.

“What is your name?” Niall asks.

Breslin startles and turns from his cauldron to look at him, leaned up on one arm on the pallet. He says, “I am Breslin. Niall Breslin.”

He waits for some flicker of understanding to pass over Niall’s face, for recognition of the prophecy. Nothing comes. The king has done Niall a disservice, keeping his true destiny from him. The disappointment is sour in Breslin’s mouth.

“Thank you, I am in your debt,” Niall says seriously. “You know who I am?”

Breslin bows his head in deference. “Yes, your highness.”

“And you didn’t say.”

“I didn’t want to alarm you, having just been attacked.” He can tell Niall doesn’t think much of that answer, and Breslin doubts the rest of what he has to say will be received any better. “You should not travel alone.”

Niall’s chin lifts ever so slightly, and there is pride in that move. “A prince travels as he pleases.”

“And gets poisoned for his troubles.”

“Well, I am the spare.” There’s more humor in Niall’s voice than Breslin likes to hear.

Breslin says nothing. He knows Niall has an older brother, preparing to take the throne, but his fate is not secured. Breslin is able to make a few educated guesses about his path and mourns for him.

“I would be honored to accompany you back to the castle,” Breslin says.

Niall quirks an eyebrow at him. “You’re not a knight.”

“No, but I am built like one.”

Niall acknowledges his point with an incline of his head and appears to calculate Breslin’s offer. He makes his decision, swift and certain. “You have saved my life, the least I can do is honor your wishes. I have only one horse. Unless you will use your sorcery to fly?”

“I can’t fly, your highness.”

Niall tsks and there’s light in his eyes. “That’s a shame. I would have very much liked to see that.”

Breslin surveys the room, uncertain what he should take with him, should this truly be the beginning of their journey. He would be loathe to leave Niall simply to return for his tomes and his clothing. He makes up a quick satchel of the essentials of the essentials, pausing for a moment at the ornamental dagger that has lain untouched in a drawer since he was presented it.

He takes it. He knows his oath, he knows he will lay down his life for the once and future king.

“I’m falling,” Niall announces, and so he is, his weak legs giving out underneath him. Breslin twitches his hand to slide a cushioned footstool in his path, and Niall catches himself on it before he makes a hard landing on the floor.

“You are not yet fit to walk, your highness,” Breslin says drily.

“I’ve noticed. Very well,” Niall says, holding his hands out to him. “To my steed, Bressie.”

Breslin pauses at the nickname. He likes it. Niall wiggles his fingers invitingly at Breslin. He likes Niall too. “Yes, your highness.”

–


	2. interplanetary ziall

“Have you got your F.R.E.D?”

“Yes, mum.”

Harry flushes, his fingers reddening where they pull at his lips. “That is high praise, thank you, Niall.”

Niall just shakes his head at him. He checks the battery on his phone - 94%, good for a few hours of sightseeing before it’s back to the ship. He looks back at Harry and finds him frowning down at the phone.

“Do not let anyone see your if-own, or they will take it.”

“iPhone, Harry. Little I.”

“Yes, yes. Arbitrary, your human English.” Harry flaps his hand before planting a big kiss right on his lips, somehow having convinced himself this was customary human behavior for a goodbye. Niall hasn’t bothered to correct him. It’s nice.

“Do not get into trouble,” Harry says, patting Niall’s head before he lopes off.

“When do I ever get into trouble?” Niall shouts after him, but Harry’s already halfway down the road, kicking up blue dirt under his feet with his inhuman speed.

Niall walks a bit into the forest, F.R.E.D. clicking and whirring as it tracks his progress through the trees. If it weren’t for the sometimes unnatural color of the foliage and dirt, he’d swear he was back home on a day hike, just miles from his house instead of light years. He doesn’t think about that too often, or the threat of homesickness will twist his stomach.

This is what he wanted, this is what he’d asked Harry for. He’d wanted to be awestruck by something he could never have conceived on his own. Harry’d promised him the universe, and Niall would have been a fool not to take him up on it.

He stops to snap a picture of the sky, the leaves a beautiful orange perfectly framing the sunlight. Christ, he’d have one hell of an Instagram when he gets home if he weren’t sworn to absolute secrecy.

He turns the camera around for a selfie, adjusting the angle, tilting his head up just right to catch the best light. His finger slips just as he’s taking the picture, startling at a voice behind him saying something in a language he doesn’t understand. F.R.E.D. whirls and hums before the stoic voice of the translator function says, “What are you doing?”

The person attached to the voice is breathtaking.

Not person, Niall supposes. Alien. Although, he also supposes, he’s actually the alien here. He doesn’t know what to call them, Harry says there isn’t a human equivalent for it. So he supposes person will do just fine.

F.R.E.D. dings and displays a report of its scan. Niall is hard pressed to tear himself away from the stranger’s sparkling eyes, but he’d promised Harry to obey the scans, to keep out of trouble. They are the same species as Harry, but a different class of male Niall isn’t familiar with. The scan says nothing about the sharp cut of his jaw or the shock of white hair on his head or how the innocent curiosity painting his face makes Niall feel some kind of way.

Niall wonders what the stranger would see if the scanner was turned on himself.

“Recording my findings. For research,” Niall answers, mostly because that’s what Harry used to say whenever Niall would catch him doing something a bit odd.

He raises his eyebrows, his lips parting a little, as though in wonder. Niall’s not sure what he’s done to deserve awe, but he’s not going to argue against it.

“You are not from around here, are you,” he says carefully.

Niall grins down at F.R.E.D. translating between them, at his sensible shoes. “Wonder what gave it away. It’s the accent, isn’t it. I’ll bet I scream tourist.”

The stranger looks alarmed at the translation, his eyes going wide. “There is no need to scream.”

Niall scrambles to apologize, “No, sorry, it’s like a phrase? Where I’m from. It just means I’m really obvious.”

“I see,” he says, and Niall doesn’t relax until he does. The set of his shoulders relaxes under the silk-like material that wraps around him, almost like a shirt. It leaves his arms bare, their lengths covered with a dark ink, elegant designs unlike Harry’s idiotic markings of random earth things he had thought were significant. Niall wonders what they mean.

“But, no, I’m not from here,” Niall confirms. “My mate is, Harry, only I think he’s called something different on this planet. His mum’s house is just at the bottom of the hill.”

“Your mate?” His hair suddenly flushes into a rosy pink and he takes a step back like Niall’s threatening to burn him. “My apologies.”

Niall blinks before he gets it, not a little surprised by how antiquated that is. He sort of has to remind himself he’s not in the future, sometimes, he’s just a bit far from home. “No, my friend, like. Just friends.”

His hair softens to a softer shade of pink, a little more like candy floss than strawberry ice cream, but it doesn’t fade back into white. Niall’s fascinated by it, and a little terrified how often Harry’s species have to give everything away, wearing their emotions as physically as they do psychologically. Harry’s been able to cover his fingers on Earth with his endless stream of gloves, but Niall would hate to see his hair covered by a hat.

“I’m Niall,” he says. He looks down to the translator, which simply echoes, “Niall.”

“Niall,” his new friend says, the words rolling around on his tongue. “Niall, Niaaaall.” He says something else that nearly breaks the translator, which tries to say, “My name is,” and then peters out, beeping half-heartedly.

Niall knocks at F.R.E.D. a bit, but it does nothing. “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t catch that?”

“Zayn,” he says, admittedly shorter than the first name he’d said, Niall doesn’t need a translator for the one syllable. The translator expands, “My _mates_ call me Zayn.”

Zayn’s face spreads with his smile, like he’s pleased at the callback.

“Hello, Zayn.” Niall holds his hand out, figuring he shouldn’t teach Zayn to kiss like Harry does (though, again, Niall wouldn’t mind in the slightest). He waits for Zayn to duck his head before he carefully presses his greeting onto Zayn. Harry’d taught him, a light tap for either side of the chest and one to the sternum. The closest Harry could describe it to Niall was an acknowledgement and an introduction of two hearts and a soul.

Zayn repeats the gesture for Niall and Niall watches Zayn’s hair slowly darken into a rich combination of black and brown.

“We are familiar,” Zayn says, when he catches Niall focused on it. That makes Niall wonder if this means his guard is down, and this is what he’s meant to look like.

“That we are. I’m just. Blond. Gonna stay blond for a while.” He gestures at the mess of hair resting lazily against his forehead. “No offense or anything.”

“No offense,” Zayn agrees. “What are you looking for in the forest?”

“Nothing in particular. Just sort of. Taking in the sights, looking for something beautiful. Do you have any recommendations?”

Zayn does, takes off into the forest at a speed Niall can’t match without flatout running before he seems to realize it. He returns to Niall instead of waiting for Niall to catch up, which he appreciates.

“My apologies, are you injured?”

“No,” Niall laughs, “just slow.”

Zayn slows his pace to walk with him quietly, each of them pretending like they don’t have a hundred questions for the other. Niall’s pretty sure he would ruin it with his blabbering, whatever they’ve got going on is too gentle for all that.

Niall wants to stop and document everything, but he’s too mindful of the fact that Zayn’s trying to show him something to stand in the way of that. He looks every which way he can without tripping over roots on the ground, and sometimes he catches Zayn smiling over at him.

Niall’s glad smiles are still smiles on this planet because Zayn’s got a good one.

When they finally stop, Zayn says something F.R.E.D. can’t translate, but Niall feels it anyway, in the clarity of the water, almost like it glitters in the light of the two suns, the power of its flow. It’s awe-inspiring.

It looks almost wrong, but Niall can’t quite put his finger on it. “It’s a waterfall?”

Zayn tilts his head and explains gently, like he’s trying not to offend Niall, “The water does not fall, it rises.”

“This world’s complete disregard for physics is incredible.”

Zayn hums. “Perhaps it is your world with the disregard for physics.”

“That’s – that’s fair,” Niall admits. He takes a picture of the not-a-waterfall as well and turns to Zayn, lifting his phone. “May I take your picture?”

Zayn crooks an eyebrow at him, something cheeky in it. “Are you recording me for your research?”

“If you’ll allow it, yes.” He wants to collect beautiful things from the universe, and he’s not found anything more stunning than Zayn quite yet.

Zayn nods, his hair inching towards brighter, like it’s threatening to turn pink. He focuses on Niall’s phone.

“Don’t look directly at the lens and pose, it’ll ruin the aesthetic.”

Zayn’s face scrunches a little with confusion at Niall, and Niall snaps the perfect picture, just as Zayn’s asking, “Aesthetic?”

“It’s perfect,” Niall says, showing him the picture. Zayn’s face is bright and his eyes are gentle and his eyebrows are crooked. “It’s beautiful.”

Zayn plucks the phone from Niall’s hands and turns it on him.

“Now, hang on a second,” Niall says, reaching for it.

“I will not drop it,” Zayn assures him. He presses at a few times before he gets the hang of it, learning quickly and snapping more photos than really seems necessary. “I must record this for you.”

“Why?” Niall asks, and he feels his cheeks pinking like Zayn’s hair.

Zayn turns the phone around to show him a picture he’s taken of Niall. “Because it is beautiful.”

–-


	3. football gryles

Nick had gotten them box tickets because that’s what they’d said at the station you’re meant to do when you want to be posh and go to the game, you sit in the box. But Pete wasn’t having any of that, wanted to sit down with the commonfolk, as it were. Which is fine with Nick, as he comes from a long line of commonfolk, but he had rather hoped the box seats would provide enough distractions that he wouldn’t have to actually watch the game.

But a harried lady named Sabrina had understood when Nick had said something and directed them to some seats closer to the pitch, highly visible to everyone around them, so Nick couldn’t sit on his mobile or stuff his face with free food he really shouldn’t be eating anyway without the entire world thinking he’s a prat. Or, at the very least, Fiona calling him a prat, on air, in front of millions of morning commuters.

Nick sighs his way through the first forty-five minutes, which in sports time, is actually more like two hours. He can’t very well ask Pete if he wants to leave his own Christmas present early.

“There’s one more of these after intermission?” Nick makes a general hand flap towards the field.

“Halftime.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent, can’t wait.”

Nick volunteers to get the next round of beer, slightly disappointed the queue doesn’t take nearly enough time to get through, because the fifteen minutes of halftime are just barely up when he shuffles back down the row to their seats.

There’s someone new on the Manchester sideline, standing right in front of their seats. He’s fitter than any of the other butch ones combined, stretching all four of his mile-long limbs diligently, his red jersey shorts looking a bit too short for regulation, if you asked Nick. If you also asked Nick, he’d say he’d rather have them off altogether, on Nick’s bedroom floor, and that’s probably the reason nobody ever asks Nick.

The fit one tugs at the tie around his hair, shakes it out like a dog that’s just had a bath, running his hands through the long locks before he masterfully packs it all back in its neat little bun. Nick sweats.

“Oh, fuck me,” Nick mutters at the sight.

“What’s that?” Pete says airily, not even taking his eyes off the field, thank god, to see Nick in a state. Though he could probably blame the flush in his cheeks on the weather. The frigid Manchester weather.

“Don’t worry about it.” Nick clears his throat. “Anyway, just a point of casual curiosity, sort of, nothing related to what I just said, but who is that?”

Pete squints after Nick’s pointed finger. “That’s a new lad, name of Styles. He’s got a lot of hair, he does.” Pete grunts like he maybe doesn’t approve of this. Nick is offended, but says nothing.

There appears to be something of a coup when they announce he’s coming in, that Harry Styles. Nick’s not sure if the stadium is up in arms because they like him or not.

The second forty-five minutes goes much faster once Nick gets his focus on Styles running back and forth across the field. He doesn’t score anything, but Nick thinks he does help someone else score, the lone point in this game. There’s a lot of jumping involved with the goal, a lot of laddy hugging and arse-slapping, and Nick’s about to join them if it means this game is one step closer to done.

When it’s all said and done, Nick and Pete exchange a _good game, right yes good game, bloody good game_ with each other as they join the crowd on their way to the car park.

“Mr. Grimshaw!” calls a harried voice behind him. Pete turns around before Nick remembers he should also turn around – he’s much more used to Nick or Grimmy, but he figures Mr. Grimshaw no longer just means his dad.

It’s Sabrina again, huffing her way down the corridor to join them. “I’ve arranged for you to meet some of the players. If you were interested?”

Nick’s about to shout _fuck no_ and run the opposite direction for forever, or at least until he hits London, but the way Pete’s face lights up has him agreeing.

Nick has the entire walk down to the locker rooms to compose himself, to think of something utterly charming and clever to say to Harry Styles, but then he’s very suddenly and very abruptly faced with Harry Styles at the door of the locker room. He looks like he’s freshly showered, which is not something Nick’s going to focus on, and his face lights up into a brilliant smile when he sees them, which is definitely not something Nick’s going to focus on.

“Hiya, Harry. This is Nick Grimshaw,” Sabrina says before ducking out of the way to hover in the corner.

“M’Harry,” Harry Styles says, like none of them bloody know.

“This is my dad,” Nick blurts. “His name’s Pete.” He nearly smacks himself upside the head, because he apparently left clever and charming back up at his seat, along with his dignity.

“Hello, Pete, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Harry’s voice is as warm, slow, and deliberate as his handshake, taking Nick’s awkwardness in stride like a saint.

“Good game out there today, lad,” Pete answers.

Harry’s eyes widen with the compliment, something demure coloring his face that Nick doesn’t expect out of a professional athlete. He very politely sits through Pete’s play-by-play of the game, nodding along with both the compliments and the criticisms. Harry flicks his eyes over to Nick every once in a while, each look launching a devastating attack against Nick’s sanity.

Pete looks about as well charmed as Nick feels, and if Nick weren’t so sure of his father’s devotion to his mum, he’d start to get a bit nervous.

“And you, Grimmy? What’d you think of the game?”

Nick takes a second to compose himself in the aftermath of the nickname before he says, “It’s a bit of an exercise in frustration, innit, like, you run here, you run there, you run back over here, all that running for a single bit of excitement when someone scores, and that’s even if someone scores.”

By the time Nick’s voice trails off, Pete and Harry are wearing matching expressions of offense.

“I mean it was a great game, a real nailbiter.” Nick pumps a fist in a cheer.

Pete’s shaking his head like he regrets ever having let Nick talk to other humans, but Harry looks tickled.

They never make it into the locker room, as they basically corner Harry outside the door and trap him in conversation as player after famous player leaves. Nick doesn’t bat an eye at the rest of them, fully engrossed in the stories Harry’s telling him about his wild and crazy life in footie. Nick doesn’t understand much of it, but he knows enough to get Harry giggling, to get his face crinkled with delight.

Nick’s threatening to get addicted to the way Harry smiles and uses his hands in the most ridiculous gestures when he’s explaining utter nonsense, and it’s up to Pete to save him, squeezing at his shoulder and letting him know Eileen’s probably got dinner up and ready to go.

“Hey, um, Nick,” Harry says, after they’ve made their goodbyes. He pulls at his lip when Nick stops up and looks back at him. “Would you like to grab a drink some time?”

Nick blinks at him. “Yeah, that’d be brilliant. I can find my way back up for a visit, and Pete doesn’t work the weekends.”

Harry laughs again and Nick doesn’t get why, but he’s pleased nonetheless, like an immediate Pavlovian response to the sound of Harry’s laughter. “I meant just the two of us, but if you need a chaperone, I guess that’s all right? It’s a bit antiquated, if you ask me, but I don’t want to offend your honor.”

Nick nods dumbly, it’s all he can do. “You don’t want to besmirch my good name.”

“It’s a very good name.”

“Yeah,” Nick says with a slow nod. “I mean yeah to the drink in addition to yeah it’s a good name, by the way.” Harry laughs again, handing over his phone. Nick thinks, absently, as he types his number into Harry’s phone, he’s probably got to learn a thing or two about football, as he’ll probably have a game or two ahead of him.

–-


	4. post-zayn ziall

Niall’s kept himself busy for most of the weekend, between lads and snapchat and all, that he hasn’t had much time to think about it. He’s aware of it, of course he’s aware of it, he can’t even glance in the direction of twitter without seeing thousands of posts of congratulations, even days after.

There’s something strange about being congratulated for having a piece of him forcibly ripped away before he was ready for it and limping along without. But he knows it’s more a testament to what they’ve done since, and a testament to the fans themselves, for not having left the four of them. It’s no short feat, Niall knows that, and he’s grateful.

Still he doesn’t celebrate. Somehow it feels wrong.

His phone buzzes on the bed beside him with a text message, like he feels the pull of Niall’s thoughts and appears to answer for them.

Liam sent him Zayn’s new number and Niall didn’t have any plans to use it. He saved it anyway, to prepare himself or to warn himself or to protect himself.

_Hey niall_ , says the first text, followed by _it’s zayn_

He feels the weight of Zayn like a phantom limb, heavy and tangible but absent. It’s been a year and the pain isn’t fresh anymore, just dull, not even constant. It doesn’t flair at the sight of Zayn’s name, but Niall’s aware of its presence.

It’s been long enough.

He answers, a simple _hey_ to match Zayn’s, wary of what comes next. It’s just small talk, good for a Sunday night, suffocating and relieving all at once, like they’re both in agreement that they have to ease their way into this. Even after all this, they can read each other and they’re taking care. Somehow it feels easy, but it had always been easy between them.

Zayn finally works his way to his point. Niall thinks he always knew this was where they were headed, but it still catches his breath, twists his stomach.

_did you listen to the album_

The pain flairs like it hasn’t in a long, long time and Niall’s fingers move faster than his brain, shooting off a snap response before he thinks better of it.

_Have you listened to ours?_

He wishes Zayn hadn’t gotten an iPhone, so he couldn’t see the little bubble that pops up, then disappears, then pops up again, then disappears. Then it stays dormant.

Niall figures the answer is still no, and he figures he’s embarrassed Zayn. He’s picked at a scab Zayn’s trying to heal over. He deserves better than that. They both do.

He calls Zayn and says, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.” Zayn pauses. “I didn’t think I’d have known otherwise.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

Niall doesn’t apologize. Niall’s not sure if it’s fair to be called out, but he reckons Zayn’s right. He wouldn’t have reached out, he wouldn’t have said a thing. He wouldn’t have known how, or he wouldn’t have known if he should.

He wants the best for Zayn the way he wants the best for everyone he loves. Even if the best doesn’t include him. Even if it means everything they built together crumbles.

He knows that Zayn leaving doesn’t mean the rest of it meant nothing. It doesn’t mean every smile Zayn ever gave him wasn’t genuine, it doesn’t mean everything Zayn said wasn’t true. And it’s what they tell themselves in preparation for when One Direction is finally over – just because it doesn’t happen anymore doesn’t make the fact that it did happen mean any less. It doesn’t make anything they’d done or felt or seen or shared irrelevant. Zayn isn’t irrelevant.

He knows that, he tells himself that when it gets hard. It’s meant to be enough, but sometimes it isn’t. Zayn is still a missing piece.

“Are you proud of it?” Niall asks.

Zayn doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It’s. Yeah, I really fucking am.”

“It’s got a piece of your soul in it.”

He’s heard Zayn describe it that way before, the kind of music he wants to make. The kind of music he hadn’t been making with the four of them. Niall loves his music, he knows his music has a piece of his soul in it. He knows what they’re doing now means something… more. Now that it belongs to them.

But what they’re doing now would never have belonged to Zayn. And now that Niall has had it, this music from his soul, he knows what Zayn had been missing. He knows why Zayn wanted it.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, soft, almost reverent. It softens Niall too, like a slow wave of peace washes over them.

“That’s good, Zayn. That’s real good.”

“Yeah.” Niall thinks he might hear Zayn smiling.

Zayn’s never needed permission for anything before, and Niall suspects he’s not asking him for permission to have this life, to have success. If he were going to do that, he’d have done it already, a year ago or before then. But he had been in the habit of checking in with Niall, at least for a while there. He’d forgotten how good it felt, to be checked in with.

Niall clears his throat. “I’ll listen to it. Might even buy it. Boost those album sales.”

“I sent it to you,” Zayn says quickly. “If your email hasn’t, uh, changed.”

“It hasn’t, I was just – it was a joke.”

Niall pulls at a loose thread in his duvet, pulls and pulls at it until it unravels, keeps pulling because he doesn’t know what to do with the silence that settles between them. He pulls until he’s snagged the fabric, and he makes a face at it. He’s ruined it, but he doubts anyone’ll notice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You know that, don’t you?”

Niall lets go of the thread. “Zayn,” he says, quiet, cautious.

“You weren’t wrong, none of you were ever wrong, I just.” Zayn’s pause is heavy with deliberation, the way he gets when he wants to be sure he’s going to say what he says just as he wants. “I wasn’t right for that, what we did, that wasn’t right for me. You know what I mean?”

Niall does, he does. It feels good to hear it. “But you’re right for this.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says like a relief.

“Okay. That’s good, I mean that.”

“Okay. Thanks, man.”

“‘Course. I’ll give it a listen, all right? Good night, Zayn,” he says and hangs up before Zayn has the opportunity to say goodbye to him.

He does a search of all his inboxes for Zayn’s name, clicking the top most unread email, assuming the rest are from management and finds a zip file called _zayn - mind of mine_. He’s unsure of what he’ll find there, doing a deep dive into a mind he thought he’d known, but perhaps never fully understood. He wonders if he’ll find himself in it, if he’ll find the other lads, if they’ll be everywhere or nowhere. He’s not sure which one he’d prefer.

He watches the file download with his thumb to his lips, worrying at his usual spot, until it completes. He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating, now that it’s ready. He was always going to listen to it, if not out of support, then out of morbid curiosity. But it feels better to do it out of support, even if it also feels harder.

He slides down his bed, rests his phone on his pillow next to his head, presses play, closes his eyes, and listens.

–-


	5. mermaid lirry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: talk of drowning

Liam wakes to the phantom crushing weight of the ocean pressing on his chest. The memory of it entering his lungs, whipping him around like a rag doll has the world spinning before it rights itself and comes clear. He’s not under water. He’s in a bed.

He’s in a bed in a stone house, only the more Liam becomes aware of his surroundings, the curved walls, the incredible high ceiling, he thinks it’s a lighthouse. It must be the lighthouse at the edge of town, isolated. Liam wouldn’t have even thought it was attended if it didn’t shine its light nightly. He supposes it could be run on a timer, but there’s a home here. There’s a bed with a comfy, warm duvet. There’s a hob and an ice chest in the corner. Someone’s rescued him and brought him into a home.

Liam absently rubs at his throat. He knows what it’s like to drown, knows the burning sensation that tears through you and leaves you feeling ripped apart. And yet Liam feels fine. His clothing is dry (joggers and a threadbare jumper, not his own), but his hair is still a bit damp in places. It can’t have been more than a few hours.

There’s a glass of water on the table next to the bed Liam downs greedily before swinging his feet onto the floor. He putters around the little home for a second until he heads straight for his wetsuit where it’s laid over a chair to dry.

He inspects it closely, running his fingers down the right leg until they poke into the slash in the fabric. He remembers being stuck, whipped back and forth, until he was cut free. The cut grazed his leg enough that he was sure he’d bled, but when Liam looks down at his right leg, it’s cut-free.

He can just see Louis’ face pinched in irritation if he finds out what had happened.

“I’m all for the great adventure,” Louis had said. “You know that, Liam, we follow each other everywhere. But you’re going to get yourself killed.”

He was almost right. But Liam had to follow the creature, he had to know. He’d told himself it was his duty to the scientific community to study a potential new species, but it was really his blinding curiosity. He’s always been too curious, not only to his own benefit but also to his own detriment.

But Liam had seen it. Liam had gotten his picture, had followed it far enough into the ocean he could see how it swam, the grace with which it moved. He looks around for his camera, but doesn’t see it. He sighs. All of his proof is gone, and he doesn’t even get the satisfaction of rubbing it smugly in Louis’ face.

There’s a pot on the table, black and cast iron. A cauldron, really, like something straight out of _Harry Potter_ , with bottles surrounding it full of weird and unlabeled liquids Liam doesn’t recognize. He lifts an eyebrow at them before his eyes flick over to the stack of mail on the counter. His rescuer’s name may or may not be called Niall Horan.

Not that Liam doubts the person who lives here is indeed named Niall, but he’s not entirely sure he was rescued by a person at all. It’s ridiculous to even consider, but the visions swimming in his brain are that of his mystery creature, with its long tail and lithe body. With strong arms that seem human, only that’s not possible. Liam shakes that thought away.

It’s peaceful here, but for a bell ringing steadily – not steadily enough to run mechanically, but like someone’s ringing it themselves. Curiosity, as always, gets him going, walking out the door.

The insistent clanging of the bell comes from the small dock that runs out into the sea, it seems, so Liam turns for it. He doesn’t see any bells lining the boardwalk all the way up to the edge of the boatless dock, but the sound is very definitely concentrated here.

He peers over the edge and finds the bell – and attached to it is his rescuer, his mystery creature. Except it’s not a creature at all, it’s a man with a hand firmly yanking on a rope so the bell rings. He’s got thick dark hair pooling around his shoulders and skin so pale he nearly looks green.

He rings the bell like it’s his job with impatient tugs at the rope until Liam leans far enough his shadow casts over him. Liam just barely gets a look at his green eyes as they go wide, absolutely terrified, and he flips back into the water out of sight.

“Shit, wait!” Liam throws himself onto his stomach and reaches out into the water, for what it’s worth. He dunks his hand into the freezing ocean and waves it around like an invitation. “Come back. Please.”

Liam leaves his hand in the water, even as his fingers start to tingle with the frigid temperature, until he is rewarded for his efforts. The water ripples before he resurfaces again. Liam pulls his hand back out of the water, wiggling some of the feeling back into his hands while he thinks about it. Because he’s about to forget everything he’s ever known looking into the green eyes of his mystery rescuer.

He’s beautiful, if not wholly unnatural looking. There’s a sheen to his skin that tells Liam very specifically he’s not human. He regards Liam critically, his thick eyebrows pulled into something that looks like a scowl. For a moment, Liam thinks he’s a bit angry, but then he moves forward for Liam, stopping up his before his outstretched hand.

He moves his own hand out of the water and gently touches two of his fingers to Liam’s palm. His ice cold fingers tickle from the gentle touch, enough that Liam’s chuckling a little out of habit. It seems to shock him, enough that he recoils and looks for a moment like he’s going to duck back under water.

“Sorry, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Liam says desperately, nearly adding in a _please don’t go_. He doesn’t go. “Can you, ehm, can you understand me?”

The creature – the man? – blinks at him, slowly, and says nothing. Gills flutter at the sides of his throat. Liam feels a bit stupid. He’s a creature of the ocean, he probably has no concept of the English language.

Liam still chats at him, like he chats at his dog, who equally doesn’t understand anything Liam’s saying. They’re a bit the same, this one and his dog, they just stare blankly at Liam as he goes. Though Liam guesses, to be fair, quite a few people stare blankly at Liam just like this.

Liam thanks him for rescuing him, introduces himself a few times, sounding out the  _Liiiiammmm_ very carefully in case the bloke in the water decides he wants to try it out. He doesn’t.

“I’ve seen you before, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable or anything, taking your picture. I’m a marine biologist, like, it’s sort of my job to investigate stuff like that? I’ve never seen anything like you, it’s truly incredible. I’d love to do a study on you, only I’m sure you’ll probably want your privacy.”

Liam stops talking when he realizes the bloke’s eyes have drifted shut. His face almost seems serene, unless Liam’s projecting, but Liam doesn’t get to study his expression for too long, because he’s got his eyes open and his eyebrows pinched when Liam stops talking.

Could be a coincidence. It doesn’t have to mean he likes the sound of Liam’s voice.

“What are you doing?”

Liam can barely stand to take his eyes of his rescuer for a moment to peer behind him at the source of the voice, but he does. It’s a young man with blond hair peeking underneath his cap and a stern look on his face. He flicks his eyes down to the creature in the water before looking back at Liam. He doesn’t repeat himself and he doesn’t seem surprised.

This must be Niall.

“I’m Liam. The two of you pulled me out of the ocean?”

“Reckon _the two of us_ did,” Niall says, narrowing his eyes. He keeps looking back behind Liam, so Liam turns back around.

He’s still there, thankfully, bobbing down into the water briefly only to resurface quickly, like he’s refreshed by the dunk in the water.

Liam smiles down at him, entranced just by his existence for another moment, until Niall sits down next to him, his feet dangling over the edge of the pier. He looks a fair bit more comfortable than Liam does, still lying on his stomach. But Liam likes being able to reach out into the water without feeling like he’s going to fall in.

“You’re Niall?”

“I am.”

Liam’s a bit surprised they both seem pretty comfortable with each other. “Do you know his name?”

Niall nods his head to the side, like a _sort of_ gesture. “It’s not something either of us can say with human vocal chords. But I call him Harry.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s got a lot of hair.”

“Brilliant,” Liam says flatly.

Niall shrugs, a bit defensive. “He seems to like it.”

Harry tugs on the bell hard, his face clouding over with a different kind of frown than what he used when he was looking at Liam before. This one seems a bit angry, almost betrayed.

Niall huffs. “What? I was out. Trying to clean up _your mess_.”

Liam looks between them, uncertain Harry’s understanding what it is that Niall’s saying. Then Harry flips back into the water like he did before, but this time his whole body goes with him. His smooth torso gives way to a scaled tail, the faint green of his skin growing darker further down his chest until it turns into the iridescent sheen of scales down his tail. He flips up a fair amount of water, soaking Niall through (and Liam, by proxy) with water.

“You little shit,” Niall swears when Harry resurfaces. Harry, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem impressed.

Liam laughs, wiping at his face. “Harry.”

Harry looks over at him, his face open, like he knows he’s being called for.

“Hello, Harry. I’m still Liam. Lee-yum?” He points at his own chest. Harry does nothing. Worth a shot, but he fails.

“How’d you find this one?” Niall asks.

“I followed him.” Liam’s a bit proud he caught up to him. “I found him near my boat and I followed him down into the sea for the longest time.”

Niall laughs, somewhat derisively. “Yeah, he let you see him.”

“What?”

“Harry swims faster than a speedboat, mate, he let you follow him. He’s too bloody curious for his own good.”

Liam blinks down at Harry. Two of a kind then.

“What were you doing chasing after him that deep into the ocean? That’s dangerous.” He sounds a bit like Louis, then, so Liam’s even got strangers telling him off.

“I’ve never seen anything like him before. He’s. God, he’s beautiful.”

He holds his hand out to Harry again, slowly so Harry is able to move away if he’s uncomfortable. Liam gently rests his hand against Harry’s cheek, feeling how smooth his skin is, nearly rubbery. Harry leans into his touch and Liam marvels at that.

Harry’s lips peel apart, displaying as much of his sharp, green teeth as will show. He looks slightly manic, his eyes wide and his teeth bared. He looks like he’s trying to make a point.

Liam glances over at Niall, retracting his hand because they’re a bit too close to the teeth for his own comfort. “What’s that, what’s he doing?”

Niall frowns. “I think. He’s trying to smile.”

“Oh.” Liam looks back at him, but the smile has faded a bit. Liam smiles quickly, something softer than what Harry’s giving. Harry looks bolstered by it. He floats backwards, pushing his body to the surface so Liam can get a whole look at him. He twists, diving into the water and resurfacing over and over, like he’s showing off.

Liam worries that he’s going to dive and then stay, that he’s going to go back where he came from and leave Liam on land.

“Wish I could follow him. Wherever he goes.”

He looks at Niall when he doesn’t say anything, raises an eyebrow at the concerned look on Niall’s face until Niall appears to decide something. He fixes Liam with a serious look.

“I think I can help with that.”

–-


	6. youareinlove.mp3 lilo

Louis isn’t going to call it an apology curry, but _someone else_ called it an apology curry, he wouldn’t argue. The curry isn’t apology for the shouting match at three am this morning when Liam finally rolled into their flat, looking dead on his feet, setting his alarm for three hours later so he could get back to work. It’s not an apology for implying Liam’s lost control of his life, that he’s surrendered his balls to his manager, that he’s become the worst thing a person can become: boring. It’s not an apology for taking out his own loneliness and staunch refusal to share him out on Liam.

Louis’ never been to his office before. He’s never walked down the thirty-seven-corridor-long maze to get to his office. He’s never really understood the sheer scope of what it is Liam does.

He knows Liam makes more than he does, he knows Liam pays more of the rent than he does, he knows Liam buys all the groceries. He’s noble, but he’s quiet about it, and that makes it almost worse. It was easier when they were both fresh out of uni, working three jobs each to get shit done. It wasn’t _better_ , necessarily, but it was easier. On Louis. And his pride.

He gets three separate people to direct him to Liam’s office – irritated on their behalf and Liam’s that they’re all there after hours. When he gets there, he finds Liam in the exact position he expects to find him. He’s hunched in his office chair, staring at his computer like it’s got the answers to life, the universe, and everything in it when he’s not making notes on a paper in front of him. His monitors illuminate the dark circles under his eyes.

Louis drapes himself dramatically in the doorframe, and then knocks on the doorframe when Liam doesn’t realize he’s there. There’s nothing Louis knows how to do better than make an entrance, especially when Liam’s the one receiving his entrance, so he’s more than a little offended at his failure.

Liam’s head jerks away from his computer at the knock, and he’s wide-eyed until he sees it’s Louis waiting for him. Then his face softens in a way that tugs at Louis’ stomach.

“Hey,” Liam says. He sounds like he hasn’t said anything in hours. His eyes dive straight to the takeaway containers and he grins. “Are you apologizing through curry?”

“Apologizing for what,” Louis dismisses as he moves into his office. He sets the container directly on the paper Liam’s working on and hauls himself onto Liam’s desk. “Dinner break, not optional.”

Liam looks between the container and his computer and Louis and back to the container before he puts his biro down in favor of poking tentatively into the food. Louis unearths two forks from his pocket and they split it. It’s Liam’s favorite, not Louis’, which is unfortunate, but sacrifices must be made.

He turns a bit to get his eyes on the rest of Liam’s desk – it’s mostly paperwork, but there is the word-a-day calendar that Niall got him for Christmas that is actually torn to the correct date, and there is a single framed picture of the two of them. He resists the instinct to reach for it.

He recognizes the picture immediately, Harry had taken the day the two of them moved into their first flat together. He can see piles of boxes stacked high behind them because once they actually moved all the boxes in, neither of them wanted to unpack them. Louis’ got one arm around Liam, one hand gripping Liam’s shoulder tight and his other pointing up at him. He’s doing that stupid face he does for all pictures, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and for a moment he wishes he hadn’t done that. He wishes he could have gotten Liam a nice picture with the smile he uses for his mum’s pictures.

He thinks maybe he’d replace it for Liam someday, but he loves the way Liam looks too much. His smile is big, blinding, so fierce his cheeks are pressing his eyes nearly look closed. He’s pressed into Louis firmly like he belongs by his side. He does belong there.

Louis tears his eyes away from the picture.

“When do you think you’ll be done?” he tries, as nonchalant as he can manage. Usually he’d just poke at whatever was frustrating him until something was done about it, usually he’s pretty fucking explicit. But the way Liam’s face had grown hot and upset last night, the things they’d said to each other – Louis’ taking it easy.

“Decent hour, promise.” At least that’s what it sounds like around the massive wad of rice in Liam’s mouth. He’s disgusting, truly, and Louis is in no way pleased that Liam’s so grateful of the dinner Louis’ provided for him that he’s inhaling as much of it as he can at once.

Louis makes a little noise, something like support, but also something like _believe it when I see it_. It’s a very expressive little noise, full of depth.

“I just worry is all,” is what he ends up saying with words.

“I know. Thank you.” He takes Louis’ hand into his own and squeezes it and leaves it tangled in Louis’ own. Louis’ face heats – usually he’s got to do all manner of mischievous things to Liam before he’ll hold his hand. He likes that Liam went for it first.

“Like we all know you’re brilliant and in high demand and whatever else, but, like. You do need to leave some time for yourself.”

Liam nods and thankfully gives his next mouthful a swallow before he says, “And for you.”

Louis shrugs. But yes, and for Louis. Especially for Louis.

Liam sets his fork down and takes his hands from Louis’ to rub his face with both hands. His hands trail up into his hair and utterly ruin the pretentious slicked back do they have him wear here, and Louis is not a little bitter that he didn’t get to do it himself. He looks a bit more like Liam this way, a little more like the absolute mess Louis knows and loves.

He looks helplessly at his work. “I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do.”

“You could come home, Liam.”

Liam looks up at him, and then he just keeps looking, his eyes shining and earnest.

Any other day, Louis would have snapped a _what_ at him, gone for his nipple, did anything in the world to get him to stop looking at Louis that way. Mostly because he doesn’t know what Liam means when he looks at Louis that way. Louis only knows how it makes himself feel. And it makes himself feel like he wants to kiss the look off his face.

It’d be a good time for it. They’re in a relatively good angle. In that Louis is taller than him, so he’d have to crane down to capture Liam’s lips – uncomfortable, but worth it to be taller than him. Liam would have to lean up, or maybe stand up, definitely brace his hand around the back of Louis’ neck to steady the two of them.

Louis breathes and leans almost subconsciously – almost – towards him.

Then Liam says softly, “You’re my best friend.”

Then Louis dies a little inside. It takes him a few moments to load the appropriate reaction, to get the half-smirk going on his face and to say, “Course I am. I better fuckin’ be, all the work I’ve put into you.”

He slides off Liam’s desk, not caring that he takes a couple of pages with him that flutter to the floor. He clears his throat and looks around the room, at anything and everything but Liam. “Anyway, best be going. You’ve got important importanty-type business man work to do, don’t you.”

Liam pauses again, damn him, and his _yeah, I guess_ comes out sounding weak.

“Bye, Liam!” Louis shouts when he’s halfway down the corridor.

He runs when he’s out of Liam’s sight and keeps running until he’s home. Home isn’t all that much better, really, because it’s their home, the one they’ve built together. There are Louis bits in with Liam bits and it’s their home. And even though it’s full of the two of them, it’s still staggeringly empty with Liam isn’t here with him.

Louis doesn’t care for Liam because he’s his best friend, he doesn’t need him around because he thinks he’s a good laugh. He’s in too fucking deep, giving more than he’s likely to get back. Maybe it’s for the best Liam’s never home. He wouldn’t want to see his soft dumb face, he wouldn’t want to curl up next to him on the sofa, he wouldn’t want to share his life with him.

He’s still got his plastic takeaway fork in his hands, and he tosses it over his shoulder, hopefully on the counter so Liam can throw it away later, but at this point he really doesn’t care.

He’s still paralyzed in the kitchen when keys clang against the front door, announcing Liam’s presence before he enters. Louis doesn’t have to fake the look of surprise on his face – it’s only been half an hour since he’s left Liam’s office, wasn’t expecting him for another three hours or so – but he’s not sure it covers the panic all the way.

“You’re early.”

Liam nods, tracing his fingers lightly around his mouth like he does when he’s considering something. He drops his hand and turns his big determined eyes to Louis. “Forgot something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Louis blinks, maybe once or twice, and Liam’s in front of him, standing so close they’re nearly pressed together and he’s doing that fucking look again. He’s soft and vulnerable and it just means something and Louis can’t take it, he really can’t, he’s going to melt straight into the floor under the power of that look.

Until Liam curls his hand around the back of Louis’ neck and Louis naturally rests his hand on Liam’s waist and then they kiss each other. It doesn’t matter who starts it first, if either of them started first or if they  fell into together with equal desperation.

It’s really something incredible to be the singular subject of Liam’s focus, to have him in every way he’s hoped for. He tastes a bit like curry, which is fine, he’s very thorough, which Louis sort of expects. Liam’s thorough in everything.

“You’re my best friend,” Liam says again when the kiss ends. He’s got that look on his face again, and Louis knows what it means.

He gives his best approximation of the look back and says, “I love you too.”

–-


	7. fell asleep on the subway zarry

“Sorry, do you mind if I just – ”

Zayn looks up from his book at the source of the low, sleepy voice. It belongs to the bloke standing over Zayn,  gesturing to the window seat next to him. He looks a bit uncertain, like Zayn might just tell him to fuck off.

“Yeah, ‘course, mate.” Zayn grabs his bag and starts to scoot over so the standing bloke can take the aisle seat. It’s one of those rare instances where the seating isn’t a long bench that faces the inside, so he supposes it is bad train etiquette to not just automatically sit by the window.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I prefer the window.”

Zayn blinks. People don’t generally tend to prefer the window seat on an underground train where there is literally no view, but. “Ehm. No. I don’t mind.”

He would rise to let the other passenger through to the window, but he starts climbing over Zayn just as soon as he says no. His chest swings a bit close to Zayn’s face as he straddles Zayn’s legs, thrown a bit by the train starting up again. He manages to clumsily twirl down into the seat next to Zayn with a huff.

“M’Harry.” Harry’s eyes are green and wide and looking at Zayn far more intensely than what is truly allowed at four pm in the afternoon when all you want to do is get home and pass out.

Zayn nods at him pleasantly, the way you’re meant to acknowledge people on the train before you go back to minding your own business.

“I’m getting off at Sloane Square, please don’t let me forget.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” He actually looks relieved for a few seconds before he turns and looks out the window at the wall.

Zayn hesitates a moment further, just to make sure his new friend Harry hasn’t gotten something else to say, before he returns to his book. The words start to blur together after a moment, the gentle buzzing and sway of the train making its best arguments for a short kip.

His eyes slowly drift shut. He’s a light sleeper when he wants to be, he’ll likely hear the announcement for his stop. He’s just about to doze off when he feels a thud on his right shoulder. His eyes snap open and he turns, nearly knocking a snoozing Harry clear off his shoulder. Which he’s using. For a pillow.

Zayn frowns down at him and then frowns around the rest of the cart, checking to see if anyone’s seeing what he’s seeing, like, how fucking truly ridiculous it is he’s being slept on right now. But it’s the train and nobody actually ever gives a shit what is happening elsewhere on their car unless it’s something that’ll go viral on YouTube.

He considers for a few moments waking Harry up, but. The more Zayn looks at him – which isn’t creepy or weird or anything because if you didn’t want to be stared at, then you shouldn’t go about falling asleep on stranger’s shoulders – but the more he stares, the more Harry looks bone deep tired. He’s got circles under his eyes, visible even under the thin curtain of wavy locks of hair that’ve fallen over his face. He seems absolutely dead to the world, and he looks like he needs to be.

Zayn doesn’t know what it is about this kid that’s got him falling asleep within seconds on trains, that has him trusting strangers to keep him honest, that has him using the entire world as his pillow. He doesn’t know if Harry’s driven by an inherent trust that the world will take care of him or that the world just won’t tell him no. But he sort of wants to find out.

He knows he’s not the person to wake Harry, so he does him what little kindness he can, if Harry is truly one to depend on the kindness of strangers. They ride together silently, peacefully, Zayn somewhat on watch over him, to make sure he’s undisturbed by every facet of the world until it’s time for Harry to go.

Zayn pats at his chest because his leg seems a bit too intimate. “Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Your stop is next.”

Harry lifts his head and comes back to the world with what seems like great effort, blinking his surroundings into clarity. When he’s done, he brightens, realizing Zayn’s kept his promise. “Thank you very much. I’m going to kiss your cheek – what’s your name?”

“Zayn.”

“I’m going to kiss your cheek, Zayn, okay?” He waits for a moment, eyebrows raised expectantly. Zayn doesn’t do anything or say anything, because he’s never actually sure what to do or say to Harry.

Harry keeps waiting, so Zayn says, “Okay.”

Then Harry leans in and does it, pressing soft lips to Zayn’s scruffy beard in something far more tender than Zayn expects. The train jostles just as it slows, and Harry’s face pushes into Zayn’s, his forehead knocking against Zayn’s temple, his nose going squished.

Zayn’s already chuckling by the time Harry pulls away, as wide-eyed and intense as ever. “Sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I buy you a coffee? As thanks?”

Zayn’s heart stutters for a second when he realizes his first impulse is to say yes, to follow after him and ask all the questions he’s got banging around in his mind.

“I’ve really got to get home.”

“Right. Right.” Harry grins, like no harm no foul. The train announces its stop at Sloane Square and the doors slide open. “Right, well, thank you, Zayn.”

Zayn watches Harry climb back over him and press through the crowd of people for the door, pardoning himself with wide eyes and a self-deprecating smile as he goes. Zayn watches and thinks and calculates. Then he presses through the crowd of people after Harry.

–-


	8. psychic ziall

Niall only pre-lives the bad days. That’s what Zayn calls it, pre-living. He lives other days in his dreams, though it’s not always just the one day. Sometimes it’s hours and once it’s gone as long as a week. He goes to sleep, he pre-lives the bad days, and he wakes back up in his own present and marks the details in his phone.

Then he waits for the bad days to come, achingly familiar, and he plays his part as best he can. Sometimes he only waits a few days, sometimes he waits years, some of them have yet to happen. He tries not to let them hang over his head. There’s a benefit to knowing a lot of things, but not much benefit to knowing these.

Niall’s always got one part of him minding the past, clutching firmly to his heart the good days past because the only thing certain he knows of the future are the bad days.

He pre-lives one of the worst days their last night in Australia. He wakes up violently, yanked from one space of existence back to his own. He’s drenched in sweat, clutching his sheets in fists so tight he might rip something. He’s here in the same hotel room he fell asleep in, alone like he’s supposed to be. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t – sometimes he wishes they’d still shared rooms, but mornings like these, he’s glad no one’s here to see him go through this.

He scrambles for his phone on the bedside table to get it all out, pushing as many details out of his brain and into the phone like he could possibly let go of them that way, like the pre-lived time isn’t burned into his brain until he lives it.

He’s careful to mark down the date in his phone as soon as he wakes up, his shaking hands having to take multiple goes at typing out 25/03/15.

He showers and practices his smile in the mirror. It’s passable enough that they might think it’s a bad leg day instead of a pre-live night hangover. They won’t coddle him because they know he hates it, they’ll let him be.

He doesn’t tell them about his days anymore. He’d always been selective of what he’d shared anyway – he hadn’t told them they’d lose the X Factor. Hasn’t told them a lot of things. He can’t tell them this one. It’s not his to tell.

They’re on the plane to Osaka and he can’t shake the fear from his bones. He doesn’t try to change his pre-lived days, not anymore. He knows better now. But every time Zayn looks at him, he feels a rough tug in his stomach. He feels like he should do something, say something, scream it out until Zayn can’t hide it anymore and he has to explain himself to them _right this second._

Harry’s on his phone in the corner when he’s not chatting with Lou, and Louis is trying to sit on Liam’s lap and buckle a seatbelt around both of them at once. It’s such a familiar scene, everybody’s playing their parts. They’re all supposed to play their parts. Niall’s not going to be the one to disrupt it. He’s not the one who would have it some other way.

Zayn notices him. He almost always does.

He sits down next to Niall like it isn’t a thing, like he’s not holding something thick and heavy inside him that’s going to shatter everything they’ve built into a thousand pieces when he thinks he’s ready for it.

“All right?” Zayn asks, and it really isn’t.

Niall whispers, though he’s unsure if it’s because he’s telling a secret or if it’s because he’s lost all of his strength. “I know you’re leaving.”

Zayn’s face falls, but not by much. Enough that Niall can tell because he can read any of them better than he’s sure they’d like him to. He drops his eyes to where his hands rest in his lap, appearing to think through his answer before he looks back up at Niall through his lashes.

“Do you know why?”

Niall nods. “Don’t have to pre-live that.”

He hasn’t had to live twice through Zayn’s frustration and disappointment, he’s only been witness to it. He knows what it’s like to watch someone fall out of love with something, he knows what it’s like to watch someone question whether they ever loved it at all.

For a fleeting and terrible moment, he wonders how many of the days they’ve spent together in this band are ones Zayn would have pre-lived, were he like Niall. He wonders how much of it was bad enough for Zayn that he’d have to suffer through them twice, if that would have broken him sooner. 

It can’t all have been bad. He wants to ask Zayn, wants to make sure there was some of it he’d only have had to live through once. But then he’s sure either answer would break his heart.

He doesn’t know if his double days are omens, if he’s meant to learn something from them or if he’s just meant to suffer. He doesn’t know if he’s meant to see Zayn leave as a heads up, to come to terms with it early so he savors what’s left of it, to stop himself from letting it end poorly between them, to spend these few weeks learning how to say goodbye.

Niall watches him closely, waits for him to reveal something on his own because that’s always been more of Zayn’s style. Niall can prod where there’s opportunity, Niall can always get him to open up. But that can only come from trust, given by Zayn freely. Zayn didn’t give him this slice of the future. Niall took it from him, unwittingly, unwillingly.

“What’s that, lads, having a secret meeting?” Louis crows over at them.

Neither Niall nor Zayn look at him, trapped in their silent stalemate. They’ve spoken their quiet truths and there’s not much left for them to say until Niall’s pre-lived day becomes a reality. Niall has a hundred and three questions, but none of the answers will likely make it hurt less, none of the answers will make it easier.

He knows Zayn loves them and he knows they aren’t enough. It hurts like a beating, but it’s not his place to question it or refute it.

He knows if what he’s got is a gift, he’s squandering it. He’s always going to squander it, he’s never going to try to change Zayn’s mind. Zayn knows in his heart this is what’s best for him, and that’s all Niall’s ever wanted for him, for any of them. Even if it means what’s best for them doesn’t include Niall. It’s not his place to change minds. The future is the future, and it doesn’t all belong to Niall, just because he gets to live it before anyone else.

–-


	9. h/c tomlinshaw

Nick hasn’t cried in ages.

Is an example of a lie. He actually cries often – there’s that one Cadbury advert, the time Pig had a wee all over the first jumper Topman sent him from his line, and that time he got lemon juice in his eye trying to impress Mary Berry. And so on.

So Nick hasn’t cried over a _boy_ in ages.

The door opens behind him, the faded sounds of the party filtering out into the night to remind Nick what he’s missing out on crying over a boy in a back alley.

Of all the back alleys in all the world, Louis Tomlinson’s gotta walk into his. He looks more appropriately dressed in jeans and what looks like a two hundred pound black t-shirt in this alley than he did back in the ballroom full of people dressed to impress.

“Shit,” Nick hisses, wiping at his eyes.

So far Louis’ not noticed, he’s struggling with a lighter in a way that’d have him mortified if he knew someone was watching. Nick turns away, considering he’s crying in a way that’d have him mortified if he knew someone was watching.

“All right, Grimshaw?”

By the time Nick turns around, Louis’ got his cigarette lit and he’s leaned up lazily against the wall. He looks like a fucking T-Bird, honestly, quiff and all, like a poor man’s Danny Zuko. Or a rich man’s Danny Zuko. Nick’s not sure.

“Hiya, Louis.” He hates the way his voice shakes, but he plasters a smile on his face like a hint.

Louis’ arched eyebrows arc higher, but he takes the hint. “Congratulations on the award.”

Nick nods. “Ta.”

Louis squints at him. “You’re chatty tonight.”

“My entire job is talking to other people. Gotta take a break occasionally or I’ll run out of material.”

Louis laughs at him. Like actually chuckles and says, “Fat chance of that.” It would be something beautiful, the way his eyes shine and his teeth flash, if it wasn’t hitting a fucking raw nerve.

Louis’ face falls when Nick’s does. His features grow as sharp as his voice grows.  “Who’s done that?”

“It’s nothing. No need to get all weepy,” Nick laughs, but it turns wet quickly.

“Hey, hey, all right.” His voice gets soft in an instant, Louis seems to react to everything in an instant, even if it’s with wildly contradictory emotions.

Louis’ got his arms around Nick before he realizes what’s going on, one hand pressing into his back, the other missing in action, probably trying to keep the cigarette from burning him. He’s irritatingly thoughtful that way.

Nick would have to squat a little to get his face tucked into Louis’ shoulder as comfortably as he wants to, but he gets away with as much as he can. Louis smells like spicy cologne and smoke and comfort.

“I’ve got thick skin, I promise.”

Louis gives his back a light pat, just sincere enough not to feel condescending. “Course you do, love. Don’t we all.”

He knows Louis does, Louis’ had to, what with all he’s been through. He’s never seen Louis cry, but he’s heard enough about it. It feels a little inappropriate, knowing that much about Louis when Louis wouldn’t let anyone see that part of him these days. Nick’s fine to let people see him crying, over Cadbury or Pig or Mary Berry, but never about anything this important, this real.

And yet.

Nick pulls away, wiping at his face. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m crying into Louis Tomlinson’s two hundred pound t-shirt.”

Louis frowns at him, then down at his shirt. “Think it was like five quid, mate.”

Nick blanches. “That’s somehow even worse.”

The door opens again, the head of a vaguely familiar looking man pops through. “Tommo,” he says with a jerk of his head.

“Yeah, all right.” Louis stubs his cigarette out on the brick wall. Nick takes it from his hand and slides it over his left ear. Proper Danny Zuko.

Louis doesn’t make any movements toward the door, just watches Nick carefully. He’s waiting for permission, it seems.

Nick flaps his hand. “I’m done with you now, thank you.”

Louis laughs, a little breathy thing. “Well, Grimmy. Don’t let the bastards get you down.” He winks and disappears back through the door.

–-


	10. ot4 in the jungle

First and foremost, Louis is a genius. That should be remembered above all else. A genius, hundred-aire, playboy, philanthropist. And he doesn’t hesitate to remind Niall of this fact the second he even senses an objection from him.

How many of their classmates can say they graduated uni and went on to save the world? Maybe like. Four others besides the three of them, like, five max.

They’re going to save the goddamn environment, and Louis’ going to show them all. Never mind the fact that Harry and Niall might be doing most of the heavy lifting, what with their degrees in plants and science and all, but Louis had the idea, and they all know the one with the idea gets to share in the glory.

Harry’s in charge of the sat nav, or more rather, in charge of staring at the sat nav with a bloody great frown on his face while Louis continues to be the most useful of the three of them. They’re headed for a clearing Louis heard of from the locals, a good place to rest up for the night so they can get up bright and early – maybe like… 10 am – and explore their surroundings, try to find that waterfall he’s seen on the internet.

Niall sighs again.

Louis rounds on him. “What?”

“I just think this is a bad idea.”

Louis props his hands on his hips, jostling the large pack on his back that makes him a bit top-heavier than his legs can handle, but he’s working on it. He stares the two of them down. “We’re in the jungle, we might as well be authentic about it. How do we know what we’re saving if we don’t go out and immerse ourselves in it?”

Even Harry looks doubtful, tugging his sunglasses up into his hair to meet the other pair of sunglasses he must have forgotten he put up there two hours ago. “I’m very much in favor of authentic experiences, Lou, but this feels. Too authentic?”

“What’s _too authentic_?”

Niall raises his hands and begins methodically ticking off his list, like he’s spent the last hour composing it to have it ready when Louis asked. “Getting attacked by an animal, getting malaria, getting lost, getting poisoned by eating the wrong thing, dying of starvation – ”

“I get the point, thank you, Neil.” Louis makes a face at him.

“It’s just like – you’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”

“I’m absolutely sure.”

Niall nods, slowly, like he’s coming to terms with it. He did the same thing when Louis told him – _asked_ , asked him to come with him on this trip. He’s a good lad, Nialler, lets his big ole brain get in the way of his sense of adventure, but sooner or later he comes around.

And Harry is always going to say yes if Niall’s going to say yes.

So they say yes again and Louis leads them through the jungle a bit further until the find the clearing. Or just a clearing. There’s some manner of clearing, which may or may not be the clearing Louis was looking for, but it’s a clearing nonetheless. Louis declares they’ll rest here for the night, as the sun’s starting to dip past the trees and soon they won’t be able to see a damn thing.

Louis dumps his pack on the floor, dusts his hands, and waves at Harry to go find sticks and stuff for the fire. He settles down on the floor to watch Niall unpack their tent. “Get on with it, I want a bit of a kip while Harry cooks dinner.”

Niall looks over at Harry’s pack, then back at Louis. His face goes dark, with the realization. “Neither of you brought tents?”

“I thought you were bringing a tent.” Louis gestures at said tent.

“Yeah. It’s my tent. One person occupancy.”

“What’s a matter, Nialler, you afraid of a little cuddle?”

Niall sighs at him, for the fifteenth time today, and Louis swears his tent-pitching speed has decreased dramatically.

After dinner, Louis’ about two beers in – because while he may not have packed a tent, he is the only one of them who did pack the true necessaries. He leans back on his elbows, warming his feet by the campfire, and he feels good. This feels right. He is a genius after all.

“I’ve been reading, actually, about climate change mitigation, and there’s been some really interesting developments as far as sustainable forestry is concerned. I really think we can start to work with the farmers back in the village, and what exactly has put that smirk on your face, Niall, it’s really rather unattractive.”

Niall bites down on his lips, trying to push the curve off of them, but it’s too late. The damage is done and Louis glowers at him sourly.

“It’s nothing. It’s just.” Niall shrugs and takes a pull of his beer. “You’re babbling on about climate change mitigation. It’s cute.”

“Global warming isn’t cute, it’s very serious.”

“Of course, Louis,” Harry says, and his eyes are lit up too. Louis turns his glower on him, so Harry drops his eyes to focus on jamming his large marshmallow onto the tip of a branch.

Louis squawks at the two of them, flapping his hand, about to launch a passionate self-defense when there’s a loud snap and a swish of the bushes. And then another, closer this time. Like something’s coming toward them.

“What the fuck is that,” Niall says quietly, but his eyes are wide as saucers.

Harry’s hands are gripping the blanket tight as he looks between the two of them. He’s dropped his marshmallow stick and dirt has coated it like sprinkles. “Is it a bear?”

Louis sighs. “It’s not a bear, there aren’t bears in South America.”

“Are you sure?”

He thinks about it. “I mean, like. No. I’m not actually sure. It’s fine, though. We’re gonna be fine.”

Just as he says that the bushes to their left shudder and crack before a man plows through them. He’s big, sweaty, irritated. He’s got a machete in his hands. And Louis knows he’s going to die today. Suddenly daily runs with Harry at the uni gym seem like a real missed opportunity. Maybe in a next life.

The stranger surveys the three of them where they sit around the campfire, gobsmacked, likely paralyzed with fear. Then he says, in a shockingly English accent, “Hi. I’m Liam. I came from the village. They said they were worried about the three of you out here on your own.”

Harry and Niall soften, like they’re relieved, and Niall introduces each of them in turn. Louis remains on guard. “How did you find us?”

Liam crooks an eyebrow at him. “They told me to follow the sound of three idiots in over their heads.”

Harry nods, pulling at his bottom lip absently. “Mm. That’s fair.”

Louis throws a marshmallow at him. “Shut up, Harry.”

“Also I can see the smoke,” Liam adds, frowning down at their campfire. “This fire isn’t very safe.”

“Well, you found us, and we’re still alive. You’re welcome to let them know and be on your way, ta very much.” Louis crooks his beer in a salute at him.

“What are you even doing out here?”

“We’re saving the environment,” Niall says with a grin.  

“Not like. Not at the moment,” Louis says. “Right now, we’re having a bit of a rest. But tomorrow we’re starting in earnest. So we’re staying the night.”

Liam draws up, straightening into what he must think is a truly impressive height, but Louis is sitting on the ground, so the effect is a bit lost on him anyway. He sheaths the machete and says very seriously, “Actually, I think we should put this out, you guys should pack up, and we should head back to the village.”

“No.”

Liam turns to Louis, surprised to see he’s stood up. “What?”

“I’m not bloody leaving. I’m staying here, these lads can stay here if they want, you can stay here if you want. I’m seeing this fucking thing through if it’s the last thing I do.”

“It might be the last thing you do,” Liam argues. Louis doesn’t have to look at them to see Harry and Niall are distressed by that.

“Then so be it. At least this time they won’t be able to say I quit because it got too hard.” Louis stops up. He’s said too much, he can say it in the way Harry’s face falls and Niall’s thumbnail goes straight to his lips for worrying.

Louis turns so he doesn’t have to see Liam keep looking between the three of them, trying to puzzle it out. He’s not going to break, is the thing, so even if Niall and Harry decide to leave him… then they can leave him. But Louis is keeping the tent, and he’ll do it on his own.

“Okay.”

Louis turns back to find Liam nodding.

“Okay,” Liam repeats. “We stay.”

“Good.” Louis nods like he was always going to win and settles down by the fire again.

“And I guess we’ll save the environment, somehow?” Liam’s voice goes up with the question. He looks to Harry for confirmation.

Harry nods gamely. “Tomorrow, though. Have a marshmallow, Liam.”

Liam swings his pack off his shoulder and pops the proffered marshmallow in his mouth without roasting it, because he’s some kind of neanderthal, before pulling a tent from his pack.

Louis sits up a little straighter. “Liam brought a tent! I bagsy Liam’s tent.”

Liam frowns. “No, I bagsy Liam’s tent.”

“What’s a matter, Liam, you afraid of a little cuddle?” Niall asks, blandly.

Liam’s face reddens, unless it’s just the campfire. “No.”

“What do you know about sustainable forestry, Liam?” Harry asks.

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it,” Louis says. Because Louis is a bit of a genius after all.

–-


	11. haroldini zarry

Harry can feel non-believers. Something about their doubt curls a darkness around Harry’s mind, fighting like a contagion to take over. But Harry knows what he’s capable of. He can amaze and astound. It’s second nature, like breathing, eating.

He keeps his eye on the guy with the dark hair and the cigarette at the back of the crowd, watching him with such intensity Harry feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He’s backlit by the rainbow lights coming from the ferris wheel, and Harry can’t get too clear a read on him.

He’s not a non-believer, though, Harry doesn’t feel that from him. Yet.

He turns to the small crowd gathered around his table, greets them with a smile and open hands. “Welcome, welcome. Are you ready to be both amazed and astounded?” He directs his question at a girl in front of him, and her face blushing furiously once she realizes she’s his volunteer.

“Erm, I guess so?”

“Well, how about just amazed? Can we shoot for that and then work our way up to astounded?”

Her friends prod at her until she says, “Yeah, okay.”

“My name is the Great Haroldini, it’s very nice to meet you, Monica.”

She gasps at his first trick. They always love that one, him conjuring their names out of thin air. Good for warming up the crowd, and now her crowd of mates are tittering with anticipation.

“This one’s an oldie, but goodie.” He fans a deck of cards in his hands. “Pick a card, please. Show it to your mates.”

She looks at him like he’s a bit mental, which, honestly, he’s so used to he’s numb to it by now. He just keeps grinning back, assured, welcoming, and she slowly pulls a card out.

She looks at the card. _Eight of clubs_ , she thinks, quite handily, showing it to the other girls. They confirm _eight of clubs_ with their thoughts as well.

“Have you got it?” Harry prompts.

“Yes.”

“Back in the deck, love.”

Monica slides the card back into the deck, a sly look on her face like she thinks she can trick Harry. It doesn’t matter where she puts the card in.

He gives the card a good shuffle, the cards floating between his hands like they’re defying gravity. He twists his wrist and one of the cards floats up into the air, like a good juggle toss. It’s the eight of clubs. He can already see the wonder in her face as it rejoins the deck and Harry shuffles it back deep into the deck.

“Juggling is one of my many other talents. But you’re not here to watch me juggle, are you?”

Harry flourishes his hand dramatically – unnecessary, but he likes the build up. There’s a level of showmanship you have to adhere to when you’re magician. He pinches the air next to the deck, his two fingers tugging gently at nothing until the card slowly comes sliding out the side on its own. Harry plucks up the eight of clubs and shows it to her. “Is this your card?”

Her eyes go wide, as they should. “Oh my god.”

“I’m going to call that a yes.”

She nods furiously, checking in with her mates before turning back to Harry. “Yes, that’s my card.”

Harry rubs at his jaw thoughtfully. “How are you feeling? Amazed? Astounded?”

“Yeah,” she breathes.

Harry glances quickly at the not-non-believer at the back of the crowd. He’s grinning.

“Thank you very much, Monica, you’ve been excellent.” He offers her his hand, but she’s cut in front of by one of the brutish kids in her group.

“Give us a go, then,” he says.

Harry blinks up at him. Non-believer. “Uh. Okay.”

He reshuffles the cards and offers them up. The bloke snatches a card up. _Jack of diamonds._

Harry doesn’t like this. It feels perfunctory now, skipping the show to prove himself. That’s not what this is meant to be about. He shuffles quickly, thoroughly, and pulls the card. “Is this your card?”

He smirks. “No, mate.”

Harry frowns at him and double checks the card. “Yes, it is.”

Some of his mates cackle. Monica looks embarrassed, and some of her mates are tugging her away. Then he’s just left with a crowd of people threatening to let the darkness take over Harry’s confidence.

“No, it isn’t,” the bloke argues.

Harry sighs. It happens too often, people fucking with him. He’s got more than a trick or two to deal with that, maybe shedding some light to break up the dark.

“Hm, that’s not what you’re heart is telling me,” Harry clucks. He twists his hand in a quick flick and the card is gone. “Have a look.” He gestures an invitation, an innocent smile on his face.

The bloke eyes him before peeling down the collar of his shirt to reveal the jack of diamonds stuck there. “What the fuck?”

Harry raises his eyebrows at him, judgment in both arches. “Lying isn’t very nice.”

“The fuck you think you’re playing at?” he snaps, but his mates think it’s hilarious. Harry feels the light in them, even as the dark crowds heavier around the one in front of Harry. He peels the card off his chest, crumples it, and chucks it on the ground before knocking Harry’s table over.

“Fucking freak,” he spits before they’re gone down the pier, onto the next dumb attraction.

Harry doesn’t watch him go, turns back to his flipped table. A couple of Harry’s cards flutter away in the wind and Harry’s heart goes with them. He’s only glad he hadn’t brought his crystal ball out yet.

Harry kneels to collect the bulk of them from the ground, but he’s stopped up by a voice behind him, saying, “Hey.”

Harry turns, it’s the dark haired not-non-believer from earlier. Harry’s cards are sitting in a neat pile in his hand, offered to him. Harry’s breath catches in his chest, but he tries to play it cool. Because that should have been impossible for anyone but Harry.

“That’s quite the trick,” Harry says, evenly as he can manage. He scans for the kid’s name, but he can’t read it from him.

“It’s Zayn,” he answers for him. “You’re quite good. Self taught?”

“Yeah.” Hours sitting in his room, imagining the possible and then making it happen. Years spent thinking he was the only one who can do what he does. And now there’s Zayn. Who can work cards the way he can, who can read Harry the way Harry reads others.

“How old are you?”

Harry’s chin lifts as he says, “Old enough.”

“So, eighteen?” Zayn says lightly.

“Yeah.” He kneels down to right his table, because he needs to, not because he wants to hide the flush in his cheeks.

“That’s pretty impressive. You want to learn more?”

“Learn more?” Harry’s heart starts to pound at the idea – not only are there more people like Harry, but there’s more he can do?

Zayn nods. “You’re a wizard.”

Harry slaps his hands against his face. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You’re a wizard, _Harry_ ,” Harry moans. “I’ve waited my whole life for someone to say that to me. You had the perfect opportunity and you’ve absolutely ruined it.”

“You’re a wizard, Harry,” Zayn tries again.

Harry waves his hand, disappointed. “You can’t – the moment’s gone, just. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but his lips are pulled in a grin, his eyes lit with amusement. He doesn’t look very sorry at all.

“I would like to learn more.”

Zayn nods again, satisfied. “Good. You should come with me.”

Harry startles, looking at his table and his case and the pier. “Oh – like, now?”

“Yeah, right now.” Zayn slings his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “I’m going to amaze and astound you.”

–-


	12. gods zarry

The sea rises and falls and Harry rises with it, his form taking shape as the water recedes back into peace. He wades through the water easily until his feet reach the shore and he lope across the sand.

He sees them sitting on the shore, dressed in a way humans do not typically dress to see him, heavy with thick cloth. They stare at the sea with wonder, and pleasure flushes Harry’s human cheeks. They smoke – a human indulgence, one Harry has encountered scattered through his currents – and let the slow, rhythmic exhales curl dramatically around him, ethereal in the low light of the setting sun.

In even a human form, they are a multitude, greater than any one thing. They are as infinite as the sky they should call their home.

Harry stands close, chaperoning the waves as he asks, “A lovely form you’ve taken, what is your name?”

“He is a man called Zayn,” he says, releasing another calm cloud of smoke.

Harry smiles, which is the best part of the human form. “Beautiful, Zayn. I am a man called Harry.”

“Where did you find Harry?” Zayn asks but he already knows the answer to it.

“We took him last week.”

Zayn makes a face, dark and disapproving.

Harry returns the look. “You know I am bound to the Fates. It is never my intention to hold my travellers captive until their breath is gone. That is the way it is meant to be.”

Zayn keeps his eyes trained on the horizon, where they should join together, the sky and the sea. They should meet there, not on this shore, not when neither of them are bound to land.

“You will scandalize the public,” Zayn says, “undressed as you are.”

Harry observes his form, how his wild hair hangs in his face as he looks down, the unnatural dark ink that stains his body, his long legs. “There was once beauty in the true human form, uncovered and without shame.”

“Times change.”

“Nothing of consequence ever changes. All that matters is the constant, the unchangeable tenets of our existence.”

Zayn sighs. “So it’s like that.”

“It was always going to be _like that_ ,” Harry mocks. He gently rests a hand against Zayn’s face, pressing enough that Zayn turns to him for the first time. “If you did not want me to find you, you should not have come to see me.”

“You’re unavoidable, Harry. Even on land, your tide pulls me in.” Zayn looks sorry to admit it.

“You should listen to the tide, it knows where you belong.”

Zayn closes his eyes and recites, “The sky catches fire when I deem it so. That is the way it is meant to be.”

“The sea gives and takes at my command,” Harry answers. “This is the way it is meant to be.”

Zayn flicks his cigarette onto the beach when he’s finished with it. Harry bristles, but says nothing, knowing it will find its way to him eventually, knowing he will get to keep this part of Zayn if nothing else.

“All men fear your beauty and your song,” he says.

Harry smiles, a rueful thing. “Not so often as they should.”

“I fear it,” Zayn whispers. “This form fears the ocean, he doesn’t swim.”

“Is that why you chose it? So you would not come back to me?”

Zayn looks away from him, down at the tide as it crawls its way across the sand, desperate to wash over Zayn’s feet but never quite touching them. Harry pities the tide.

“The sky has been stagnant without you. It plays its part, it serves its purpose. But the sky is meant to be unpredictable, the earth is meant to fear its potential and its people should be awestruck of its power.”

Zayn’s voice drops, thick with emotion. “I don’t want to be feared.”

“You do not have a choice,” Harry says, his voice cutting through the silent beach, and the waves crash their agreement unforgivingly into the shore. Anger sits close to the surface in a human form, closer than what he feels as the sea.

Zayn’s eyes flash in response, the fire of the sky in them. “The Fates do not govern us, we are greater than they are. That is the way it is meant to be.”

Harry shakes his head, pity in the action. “The sky has not opened with rain in days, you have not taken from me what they need. Soon their land will dry and soon you will destroy them, soon they will die, and they _will_ fear you and curse you along the way, you and your pride.”

Zayn’s face goes pained, the emotion coloring his face in a uniquely human way that catches the breath in Harry’s chest. “You’re right,” he breathes. “I’m powerless in the end.”

“Zayn,” Harry starts, the shock of his misstep with Zayn lighting up his body with guilt.

Zayn looks at Harry, emptiness already found in his eyes. “Return to the sea, Harry. And I will return to the sky. That is the way it is meant to be.”

Harry turns for the sea, knowing there is nothing left for him on land. Success tastes bitter in his mouth until he doesn’t have one, until he rejoins the sea and Harry slips away.

The man called Zayn stands on the beach, lit unnaturally in the darkness by the moon as it shines brighter in the sky than it has in days. The tide reaches for him, comfort its aim, but he takes a step backwards. He keeps stepping backwards, fear lighting his eyes, until the sea can’t reach for him without conquering the shore. The sea remains where it should be, where its lines have been drawn. That is the way it is meant to be.

–-


	13. bungalow niam

Niall never really knew he was the type of person to get homesick because before he applied for the X Factor, he’d never really gone anywhere to be homesick at. He’d thought the bungalow would be easier, considering it is someone’s proper home, not like where they were staying for boot camp. It isn’t much easier, he still doesn’t get much sleep.

It could be nerves, though. It could be that everything they’re working toward rests on what they’re doing here, how they’ll come together as a band. It’s a lot of pressure, it’s a lot of work. He’s just happy to be here – that’s what he tells them all. He’s happy to be part of the band, happy for the experience. He could take the band or leave it – when the truth is he’d much rather take it, he’d rather take it and run with it and never let go.

It’s got Niall out of bed at 2 am, picking over the rubbish they’ve left all over the living room floor until he reaches the sliding glass door to the outside. He steps onto the patio, the cement cool against his bare feet, and hops his way into the yard. He’s surprised to see Liam lying in the grass, his head bracketed by his arms. For a moment, Niall thinks he’s sleeping, but the closer he gets, he sees Liam’s eyes are wide open.

“Hey,” Niall says softly, so as not to startle him.

Liam cranes his head back a bit into a position that looks uncomfortable, and he answers with a _hey_ of his own.

Niall settles down beside him without asking. He gets the feeling if the situation had been reversed, Liam would have asked – if he didn’t immediately turn around to go back inside just at the sight of Niall. He would have hemmed and hawed and fidgeted before even getting up the courage to ask Niall if he wanted company, and he probably wouldn’t have believed Niall if he said yes. He’s gun shy, Liam, only like, friend shy.

Niall thinks if none of this works out, if it all ends up collapsing, he’d like to get the other four out of it anyway. He’d like to keep them. He’s had Liam the longest of the four, and he sure would like to keep him until Liam believed Niall actually wanted him.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I tried to power down, but apparently I’ve malfunctioned,” Liam says, too somber to be as biting as he probably intends. So it’s definitely the band that’s got him up too.

“Louis was just having a laugh, none of us think you’re a robot.”

“I’m not, there’s nothing robotic about trying to win.”

“I know,” Niall says gently. Of all of them, Liam’s taken it the hardest. He takes their second chance as a challenge more than an opportunity, like it’s his personal mission to prove that all five of them can succeed.

“My da,” Niall adds, “he always says you gotta want it bad enough. Don’t much matter if you’re good enough, if you don’t want it bad enough.”

“I want it bad enough,” Liam says, quiet like it’s confession. It’s not a surprise to Niall that he wants it bad enough, it’s not a surprise to anyone. But somehow, right here, lying beside each other, it feels sacred.

Niall shrugs best he can lying on the ground. “Then you’ll get it.”

“It’s that simple?” Liam doesn’t look doubtful like anyone else might be. He lets hope color his voice, he lets himself believe he can have everything he’s ever wanted.

“Sure it is,” Niall says, but he knows it isn’t, not really. It’s the kind of thing that keeps them going, keeps anyone going, really. The sincere and simple belief that not only can you get what you want, but you can also deserve it. Niall wants to deserve it as much as he wants to have it.

Liam breathes deep, exhaling deliberately, like he’s about to launch into one of his ridiculous vocal warm ups. But he doesn’t; he settles more, like he’s sinking deeper into the grass. His eyes drift closed, like he’s allowing himself a moment of peace.

“I really want it to be that simple,” Liam says. “I want it more than anything for the five of us.”

Niall watches him, sees the weight of his world on his shoulders, the responsibility he feels for them. Louis sees Liam’s sense of responsibility as a burden, like Liam’s got to carry them through to the end because he doesn’t trust them. But Niall knows what it really means. It’s how Liam shows he cares.

“Liam, there’s no easy way tell you this, but – I can see the future.”

“Oh yeah?” Liam opens an eye at him.

“Yeah, and it’s bright. Blinding. Literally. I’m seeing stage lights.” Niall raises his hands to the stars, visualizing their future in them, in the blinding stars. That’s what they’re meant to be.

“Stage lights is good,” Liam encourages.

“And a massive neon sign, says _Niall and the Potatoes_.”

Liam slaps his hands to his face and groans through them, “We are not calling the band Niall and the Potatoes.”

“I dunno, mate, I think it’s got a real ring to it.”

Liam laughs. “I mean, it is better than Pentagram.”

Niall nods, Louis’ suggestion of course. “We’ll be the first boy band to target the coveted Satanist market.”

Liam puts a scandalized hand to his chest. “What would my mother think?”

“I think Karen’s got a few more secrets than she lets on,” Niall teases with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Don’t – don’t you dare,” Liam warns, but his face is lit with a smile. He’s bright, like the stars. That’s what he’s meant to be.

Niall snakes his hand across the grass to grab Liam’s hand. He holds it loosely until Liam grips him back, reluctant until it strengthens. Niall raises their hands and rests them on his chest, anchoring them together.

“You really think we’ll tour the UK?” Liam asks.

“And Ireland,” Niall says, sternly.

Liam is quick to correct himself. “Of course, and Ireland.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Liam nods and squeezes Niall’s hand. “Cool.”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Very cool.”

–-


	14. snowglobes lirry

Liam has to watch himself so his lips don’t run the risk of turning down as he watches Harry gather up all of his bags and move them to the door.

“Where is it this time?”

“Tokyo. Do you want me to bring you something back?”

Liam shrugs. “A snowglobe?” It’s a cheap present, it’d be cute, easy to tuck into his suitcase, something he could probably pick up at the airport on his way home to him.

Also he quite likes them, likes to shake things up and watch them settle. Likes the idea that he could have little pieces of wherever Harry’s gone because he can’t go with him.

Harry grins. “I’ll get you a snowglobe.”

–

_Have to go straight onto Thailand. Keep an eye on the mail xx._

His text teases Liam for days, Liam’s heart jumps every time he goes for the mail when he gets home from work, but there’s never anything in there but nonsense and bills.

A week after the text arrives, the doorbell rings. It’s a courier driver, he’s got a box tucked under one arm and one of those electronic signature device things in his free hand.

“Sign here, please,” he directs Liam before he gives him the box.

Liam signs and thanks him and slams the door shut behind him to rip greedily into the box. It is indeed a snowglobe from Tokyo nestled carefully within the brown paper. It’s got a big orange and white tower in that honestly looks a bit like the Eiffel Tower than it does something that belongs in Japan. Harry’s written him a note that says, _Went to the top of the Tokyo Tower. Tried to look for you, but it was too cloudy. All the love, H._

He gives it a good shake, watches the snow flutter down over the tower, around the beautiful garden carved into the bottom of it. It’s comforting, in a way. Liam loves it.

–

It goes like that for a while, Harry texting his apologies when he can’t phone him before heading off to another place to meet with another set of clients, and Liam tells him it’s okay, that he has to do what he has to do for his job. He’d never begrudge Harry that.

Harry asks him if he wants something other than a snowglobe, and Liam tells him no, because he can’t say _yes, I want you._

The doorbell rings. Liam sighs.

It’s the courier driver again. His name’s Niall, he’s from Mullingar, he’s not a fan of dogs, and last weekend the hot water went out in his flat. Liam knows all these things about him because he comes every four or five days with a box tucked under his arm, stamped and plastered with customs forms from dozens of different countries.

A guy starts to get curious after a while, Niall had said. So Niall knows that Liam has a boyfriend named Harry who’s traveling the world for work, he collects snowglobes, and he misses him something fierce.

“Where’s this one from?” Liam asks.

“Sweden, looks like. I think this is Swedish? Do they speak Swedish in Sweden?”

He hands the box over for Liam to study it. Liam squints and says, “I don’t actually know.”

“Think you’re running out of room at this rate,” Niall says, giving a look around his living room. Liam has to agree.

–

Eventually Liam has to start buying shelves. He runs out of space over the fireplace, on the tables around their living room, on their bedside table. He goes to the hardware shop and buys slats of wood and brackets and screws, and he fixes them to the wall as even as he can without another eye to watch him.

He figures as long as the snowglobes don’t go sliding off, it’s good enough.

The snowglobe from Hawaii is a bit baffling. Liam doesn’t know too much about Hawaii, but it always seems like it’s sunshiny and warm there. Seems weird to shake snow over palm trees and the luau girl who shakes her hips every time Liam gives the snowglobe a go. He pops the Hawaii one onto the shelf, slides Harry’s note under it ( _Aloha, aloha, aloha - hello, I love you goodbye, H x._ ).

He takes a picture of the finished product, all thirty snowglobes shined and lined up neatly, and emails it to Harry, switches the subject line from _Wish you were here_ , because he thinks that’s going to make him feel a bit guilty, to _Might have needed your help…_

–

The doorbell rings. Liam has half a heart to tell Niall he’s left it open, but he gets up off the couch anyway to receive him. They’ve got a routine.

It’s not Niall, it’s Harry. And he’s got a snowglobe in his hand, one with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. A snowglobe for home.

“I lost my keys in Bangladesh,” Harry says with a smile.

Liam tugs him in and kicks the door shut behind him, blindly of course, because he’s kissing Harry as soon as he gets his hands on him. His lips are familiar as they were the last time Liam kissed him. Harry’s been all around the world, all manner of foreign places, new places, but everything about him is still so perfectly familiar.

“Welcome home,” Liam says.

Harry grins into their kiss. “Missed you so much.”

–


	15. stranded niam

Hands down one of the dumbest fucking dumb things Liam Payne has ever uttered with his bigdumb mouth has got to be, “At least it isn’t raining.”

Because at that exact moment, the cosmos were listening, and at that exactly moment, the cosmos decided it hated Niall. And then the sky opened up and started pissing down rain on them.

“For fuck’s sake, Liam.”

“I’m sorry!” he insists, like he actually has some sort of control over the weather. He really does look guilty about it, and for a moment, Niall considers apologizing.

Then the moment passes.

He turns around, squinting down the mountain like maybe their car might spontaneously roar to life and come rescue them instead of sitting there, useless and dead. Niall turns back and ducks his head against the steady stream of rain.

There’s no cellphone signal up here, but there was a bar a few miles up the mountain, the motorcycle-type, which Niall had only ever thought existed in films. Turns out that’s a genuine thing America has. Who knew.

“Do you think we’ll have to walk the whole way?” Liam asks.

“Dunno, unless you reckon a wild forest Toyota’s gonna burst out of the trees.”

“Ooh, that’d be sick. Just like Harry Potter?”

“Yes, Liam, just like Harry Potter.”

Liam goes off about giant spiders and Niall half-listens, a little more focused on how stunningly cold the rain is.

This whole holiday’s been a bit of a shitshow, really, since Louis was too busy at home and Harry bailed to do god knows what else and they both left Liam and Niall to attempt to navigate California on their own. He loves Liam, truly, he does. But Niall had plans, it was meant to be the four of them, and he doesn’t much like it when nobody adheres to them. It’s that thing, isn’t it. Murphy’s Law. Everything’s gone wrong that could go wrong. This is just one of many.

He’s usually a roll with the punches kind of guy – and so’s Liam. But honestly, they’re at a bit of a loss with just the two of them, stumbling around their four-person holiday with only half the participants, doing all the things they planned even though the people who wanted to do them aren’t here.

This trip up a mountain in the middle of fucking nowhere California, for example. All Harry’s fault.

“Are you cold?”

Liam’s got that look in his eye and that tone in his voice that means he’s going to peel off his rain-soaked jacket and try to shove it onto Niall like it’s going to help.

“No, I’m good.”

“You’re shivering.”

He is shivering, damn, he can’t exactly hide that, as much as he keeps his arms wrapped around himself. “It’s fine.”

“C’mere.”

Liam pulls him off the side of the road, under a couple of trees whose leaves and branches provide enough of a cover that it’s only lightly dripping on them. He pulls Niall into a hug, wraps what he can of his jacket around Niall’s back as he crowd him up against his surprisingly dry chest. Niall works his hands under the back of Liam’s shirt, digging his icicle fingers in when he realizes how much warmth Liam radiates.

It’s cold and wet and dark enough they could get murdered easy and nobody would ever know. He closes his eyes and presses harder into Liam’s chest until he feels safe. Liam’s always made them feel safe.

“I’m sorry this is such a shit holiday,” Liam mourns.

“It’s not a shit holiday.”

Liam makes a noise like he doesn’t believe him. Niall used to be better at lying.

“It’s a good holiday. It’s just. Shit things have happened in it.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, but there’s not a lot of strength to it.

Liam holds him and Niall holds him back and they listen to the rain, but neither of them seem to have any plans to move any time soon. _Thank god it’s Liam_ , Niall thinks. If any of them had to be out here alone with Niall and a broken car and a torrential downpour, thank god it’s Liam. He’s the best one for it.

“I wish it was raining.”

Niall removes his face from the warmth of Liam’s chest. “What are you on about?”

Liam looks thoughtful. “Reverse psychology, isn’t it? Say the thing you don’t want to happen as though you want it happen, and then, like, things happen the way you want them to.”

Niall blinks. That’s like. Three different kinds of wrong. But it also feels sort of right. “Yeah, I wish it was raining too.”

“I hope it rains all night long.”

Niall thinks for a moment that Liam might be magic, because as soon as he says that, the rain slows to a stop, not even a light mist. Then the moment passes.

–-


	16. vampire lourry

Louis hasn’t left his room in four days. He also hasn’t slept in four days, eaten in four days, showered in four days. He hasn’t done anything but sit in the corner of his room with his legs pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees.

He won’t last much longer, not with the way Harry keeps knocking on his door every few hours to ask him if he’s okay. He’s not okay. He hasn’t slept or eaten or showered in four days, and the thing is, he doesn’t need to. He really just needs a drink.

It started with a drink, or maybe eight. It started with so firm a press of lips to his cheek that she had to thumb away a smudge of her red lipstick. He was absolutely pissed, barely remembers the night with anything other than hazy flashes. The flutter of soft brown eyes, the low murmur of _mm, I like this one_ against his neck before she bit him. The way her blood had tasted when it hit his tongue, the kick that made him start drinking from her in earnest even though he didn’t understand what it meant. The way his entire body felt like it caught on fire before his heart stopped.

He wonders why they left him there. He didn’t understand why she took his life, but didn’t take him with her. She left him lying in the dirt to awaken with his throat on fire and his mind fixed on the one thing he knows he shouldn’t have.

Harry knocks on his door, right on schedule, calls, “All right, Lou?”

His door is locked, but it’s never usually locked and he knows that frustrates Harry. A lot of things are frustrating Harry.

“Fine, thanks, really.” His voice comes out an ugly rasp that really doesn’t help his case.

He can hear Harry sigh. It’s not exactly a quiet one, it’s definitely more on the long-suffering end, and he figures he’d hear it even without his heightened senses.

“When we said we’d move in with each other, this isn’t exactly what I imagined. If I wanted a shut-in flatmate, I’d have asked Zayn.”

Louis’ stomach twists at the mention. He tries to let his silence say enough.

“You haven’t been this closed off since you learned to wank,” Harry jokes.

“Not wanking, cheers, Harry. Please go away.”

“Talk to me, what’s going on?”

A thought twitches in his mind. Harry’s the solution. He could have Harry, take him for everything he’s got, and then he wouldn’t feel the itch. He wouldn’t burn as he does, he would be satisfied.

He loses the thought, or he shoves it from his mind. Not Harry.

He grips his knees tighter and presses his face against his legs, closing his eyes to the world as if that’d mean the world was closed off to him.

“Open this door or I’m opening it for you.”

Louis snorts. Then there’s a thump against the door.

“You’re only going to hurt yourself,” Louis says, but it’s muffled against his legs.

Another thump, this one louder, more violent.

Harry groans, spits out a rough, “Oh, _fuck_ ,” that has Louis to his feet. His heart would pound if it still worked.

He crosses the room in an instant, wrenches open the door, and finds Harry standing on the other side in the dark corridor. Louis doesn’t even need to squint to see Harry’s arms are crossed and his hip is cocked. He looks both completely fine and utterly unimpressed with Louis.

“You sneaky little bastard,” Louis says when Harry presses past him into his room.

“Look at you, pouting in the dark.” He flips on Louis’ light, and Louis winces at the sudden force of it, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes.

Harry’s face drops when he sees Louis. He’s not looked in the mirror since he’s gotten home, but he can’t imagine he looks any better than he did then. He knows his face is a bit ashen, there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired even though he can’t sleep anymore. He’s every inch the stereotype and he hates it.

He hates it even more with the look on Harry’s face, the absolute devastation when he sees what Louis has become, even though he doesn’t really realize what that is. Harry looks so young like this, broken apart with fear about what Louis let happen to himself.

“Oh my god, Lou,” Harry breathes, reaching out for him.

Louis flinches away, taking a few steps back so he can’t feel the effects of Harry’s warmth. He tries his hardest to ignore the tug, the itch under his skin that pushes him toward Harry, who’s here and ready and so so alive.

“You need to stay over there.” Louis points at the bed.

Harry remains stubbornly unmoved. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I will, please. Just.” He gestures at the bed until Harry goes and sits on it.

There’s not much use to lying now, not when Harry’s seen him. But the truth of the matter is, he can’t hide anything from Harry, not really. Harry’s an inevitability. If there’s anyone Louis would trust to bear the burden of Louis’ change, it’d be Harry.

He explains it all very carefully, who she was and who she was with. How they’d taken Zayn but they’d left him behind. How hard his thirst wrings at his stomach, how his throat burns. He tells Harry almost everything.

This is just the kind of thing Louis might say to wind him up, he realizes, but he feels a bit too committed for this to have just been a bit. He feels a bit too honest, and he thinks Harry reads that on him. Harry reads him so easily, cuts through his bullshit so fast it nearly scares Louis. Harry’s doing that now, staring so deeply into him he knows it’s truth Louis’ telling.

“So. I think. I need to move out.”

“No,” Harry says sharply.

“Haz – you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? You’re still you, right? You’re still my best mate. Just with. Dietary restrictions.”

Of course Harry’d respect his new diet. It’s just, Harry isn’t supposed to _be_ his new diet. The longer he sits in this room with Louis, the more Louis thinks about it. And the more Louis thinks about it, the more trouble they’re both in.

“I don’t think it’s that easy, I don’t – I don’t feel safe like this. If I hurt you?”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry says simply.

Louis shakes his head. “I would. If I were desperate enough, Harry, I think I would.”

Harry rises and walks over to him, keeps walking until he’s backed Louis against a wall. “Am I supposed to be scared now?” he asks, but his heart rate betrays him, pumping his blood in double time.

Louis meets his eyes and Harry’s drop into something heavy-lidded, like his body’s ready to go pliant at the barest hint that Louis wants it to.

He tilts Harry’s head aside and brushes his lips against Harry’s neck, just to know what it feels like. He feels his lips buzzing in anticipation, his teeth are so close. All he’d have to do is press a little harder, and he could have his fill. Harry shudders out a slow breath.

That’s what pushes him to get his hands on Harry. He twists him easily until Harry’s up against the wall and Louis can take a few steps back from him. “You already are.”

He watches Harry come back to himself, blink away whatever fog was keeping him from his right mind. Louis thinks he might have realized what had happened, but then Harry says, “You can, you know. If you want.”

He’s going to starting throwing things soon, for fuck’s sake. “Harry.”

“If you promise it won’t turn me or like. Hurt too much.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Louis remembers that much. It feels like a relief, like you didn’t know you needed to be fed from until you were fed from. Then once they give you what you want, you’re hard pressed to remember if you ever wanted anything else.

“Then do it.”

“I can’t.”

Harry walks back up to him, holds up his right wrist, places it temptingly in front of Louis’ face. “You have to take care of yourself.”

Louis shakes his head, but he can’t take his eyes off his wrist, its blue veins holding just what Louis needs. He might trust himself to pull away before Harry gets hurt. He doesn’t even need to ask Harry if he trusts the same thing.

Harry’s voice goes gentle, empathetic. “It hurts you, yeah?”

Louis nods and he hates himself for it. Harry doesn’t say anything else, he just waits for Louis to do something about it. And then Louis does something about it.

–-


	17. lirry try something new

As soon as Liam puts the car in park, Harry’s door is open and he’s shooting out into the drive. It starts just as quickly as that.

Harry turns immediately back for the road, his boots clopping loudly against the pavement as he stomps away in what he must think is righteous fury. Liam sighs and starts shuffling after him.

“Where are you going?”

Harry doesn’t even look back at him. “Sicily. That’s in Italy.”

“Are you planning to walk there?”

“No, I figure at some point I’ll need a plane. Or a boat.”

Liam doesn’t really pick up his pace. He could easily overtake Harry and then some, despite Harry’s long legs carrying him quite fast, but he lets Harry have the illusion he’s uncatchable for just a bit longer. “Harry, just come back.”

“No, this is my decision. And since we’re _apparently_ not running decisions by each other before we make them, you can just fuck off.”

“Harry – ”

“Good bye, Liam,” he calls with a wave of his hand as he spins on his heel. “I’m going to travel the world. Please don’t call me because international charges are outrageously expensive.”

Liam scrambles for the appropriate response. He can’t actually let Harry walk away from him? So he starts to jog after him in earnest. He quickly decides to scoop him up around his waist and throw him over his shoulder, swinging him up like pendulum. He tries not to let Harry settle too hard on his shoulder.

Harry squawks, with both shock and indignation, and immediately starts to slap at Liam’s back. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to be irritating. Typical Harry. 

“Liam, put me down.”

Liam pretends to consider it. “Actually I won’t.”

“I could get out of this, you know. I’m very masculine. I’m just trying to preserve your dignity.”

“Much appreciated.” He pretends he needs to give Harry a good heft to adjust him safer onto his shoulder, but he’s really just trying to irritate him. Just a little. He deserves it, the scene he’s making right there in the middle of the street, where anyone can see them.

Harry wiggles all the way back to their house and then into their house once Liam very carefully eases them through the door.

“Put me down, you _neanderthal_ ,” he shouts when they’ve reached the living room.

So Liam tosses him onto the couch and he goes bouncing, nearly falls over onto the floor. There’s really no need for name calling. 

Liam gets as close to fuming as he can get. “What are you going to do, run away every time there’s some shit you don’t like?”

“No,” Harry says, petulance staining his voice. “I was just running away _this time_.”

“What’s that going to solve?” He throws his hands in the air, trying to give exasperation a good go. “You should stay and talk to me.”

Harry starts chucking throw pillows at him, which isn’t exactly talking. They’ve never fought before, not really. He never really imagined it’d be quite like this. Harry gets a bit grumpy, admittedly, when things don’t go his way. Liam’s just at a bit of a loss with what to do when it’s directed at him. Perhaps he didn’t think this all the way through.

“Why?” Harry bites. “You didn’t talk to me before you decided to do this.”

It’s harsh enough that Liam nearly takes a step back. “I should have talked to you first, I’m sorry, Harry, just – ”

“It’s too late. No takesies backsies.” Harry stomps right past him to the door, standing before it with his hand reaching for the knob. But then he pauses and says, “Liam?”

“Right, sorry, right,” Liam says quickly and sprints quickly to join him. He spins Harry around and presses him to the door. Harry can’t go, he tells himself. He’s got to make it up to him, he’s got to make it right.

“Don’t go,” Liam says quietly, respectful of how little space there is between them. “Please.”

Harry breathes loud, though, harsh and deep breaths that skate across Liam’s lips when he exhales. His eyes go soft as he looks down at Liam. “Say I was right.”

“You were right,” Liam answers promptly.

Harry nods slowly. “Now kiss me.”

Liam presses his apologies into his kisses, slowly, earnestly. Then he presses them into the thrust of his hips against Harry’s. So Harry really feels them, so Harry can feel Liam’s apology light up his whole body, so he really knows Liam means it.

Harry’s already hard against him, both from being pressed against the wall and from the spat. He’d no idea Harry would be this sensitive to it, to the shouting match, but he’s not exactly complaining. Liam’s always open to trying new things. He supposes this is a new thing that works for them.

He’s not prepared for Harry to come as quickly as he does, before Liam can get his hands on him, just as Liam gives him a particularly enthusiastic thrust and whispers a few apologies into his ear. Harry takes a moment to sag against Liam, his eyes closed and his lips worked into a smile, before he makes a move to Liam’s flies and doing him the same favor.

They slide down onto the floor afterwards, drained both physically and emotionally. Harry leans into him, so Liam wraps his arms around him. He wonders if this was the right thing to do. It was good, like, fucking _really_ good, but is it like. Too weird?

“That was good,” Harry says, almost like he can tell what Liam’s thinking. He’s always been very good at that, or maybe Liam’s just always been quite transparent. Especially when it comes to Harry.

“You were very in character.”

Harry grins. “Thank you.”

“I was actually starting to get worried there for a moment, that you were actually quite mad at me?”

He remembers the rules – keep it vague enough so they don’t risk fixating on something that might be or might become a real issue. He doesn’t even know what they were fighting about – and he’s honestly not entirely sure he’d ever get in trouble for Not Talking to Harry, because Not Talking has never been a problem for Liam. Liam talks everything out, every little thing. He wants Harry to know everything.

“Nonsense, I would never,” Harry says, flapping his hand lazily. “I liked that bit where you threw me over your shoulder.”

Liam chuckles.

“I’m serious, I was nearly going to call the thing off and have you right there in the street.”

Liam swallows hard. “Hm, really?”

Harry nods and kisses his cheek before slowly trailing down his neck. “I think you should be angry next time.”

“Yeah?” Liam breathes, starting to get interested again.

“Yeah.” Harry slides down and turns the line of kisses down his chest. “I should very much like to make it up to you.”

–-

**Author's Note:**

> thank you very much for reading. if you need me or if you have a prompt, i am [ here](http://wickershire.tumblr.com), i will try my darndest to make something happen for you.


End file.
